Late August

There are moments throughout the year that can't be mistaken for any other season. The ice blue of a winter sky might happen on a clear day in late November or February; the still swelter of midafternoon under dark green leaves might be early June or mid-August. A chill, rattling rain in Portland? Who knows.

But late yesterday afternoon as I pedaled through Portland, the moment was unmistakable. A delicate, lacy layer of clouds interrupted the sun's heat, but a steamy humidity warmed the air. Lawns were burned to hay, and a few dry leaves clattered across the pavement. Something about the color of the light seemed less saturated, slightly washed-out.

It was a day that could only have fallen in the last week of August or the first of September. It felt like the end of things--but not the *very* end. Is there anything as delicious as a day perfectly suited for its time?