I always feel trapped by August, its thick cluster of vowels. Clotted. Lugubrious, made for a lazy tongue. Made for limbs given up to the sun. If it were a kitchen sauce, it would need to be thinned. If there is a gust in August’s nature, we don’t feel it until the second half.
Just what augur lurks in August? Something is hiding in plain sight of its sun. Its heaviness portends. The gods know what hangs in the balance, but who can read the signs? In the long wash of hazy beach sunset, reams of moody air rolled out, I can’t find a pattern. The gulls are dropping mussel shells on rocks. Sandpipers perform their own nutcracker suite in the just-washed shoreline. Their pattern is their business.
As for august leader, august occasion or company, hmmm, another conundrum. Augustus’ shrewd power, respect and veneration — another shield which conceals while purporting to reveal. Weighty, in our days, droplets of moisture pasted to air molecules, weightly as in 90 percent humidity. Do you feel the hanging of fate, one day swaying this way, one day that?
Welcome August, to you I tip my hat, sticky old friend. Let’s go hand in hand.