There’s nothing like a warm summer morning, filled with haze and sunshine. While I sometimes curse the fact that I’ve tossed and turned all night in heat that wraps itself around you and won’t let go, I simultaneously feel afoul the very moment I see summer slip slightly toward cooler weather. How is it possible that summers of youth last many more months than summers of a later age? The days pass much more quickly than those days when I frolicked into the evening hours, counting the fireflies that lit my way into night. Now, a summer seems as quick to pass as that fireflies momentary light. On and then off. Bright and then dimming, onward to the next season.