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rejectomorphYesterday afternoon I noticed that the jasmine blossoms are turning yellow and losing their fragrance. Tonight, their scent is entirely absent from the air. I am so accustomed to having them bloom in June and linger until early July that I now feel a sense of displacement, as though time had been accelerated. The time of cherry picking lasted only a few days, the jasmine has come and gone, and the solstice is yet weeks away.
Not just the abbreviated spring, but the brief nights make me feel that I am being rushed along. It is not yet five o'clock, and the moon, barely past full, begins to pale while hours of its journey to the western horizon remain. In the northeast, the dark brushwork of trees emerges as the sky brightens with imminent dawn. The night air has hardly cooled before the sun returns to bring more heat. The heat and the long twilight of the evenings are the only things that linger now. All else rushes past like bits of roadside seen from a speeding car driven by a madman bent on some aimless journey.
Not just the abbreviated spring, but the brief nights make me feel that I am being rushed along. It is not yet five o'clock, and the moon, barely past full, begins to pale while hours of its journey to the western horizon remain. In the northeast, the dark brushwork of trees emerges as the sky brightens with imminent dawn. The night air has hardly cooled before the sun returns to bring more heat. The heat and the long twilight of the evenings are the only things that linger now. All else rushes past like bits of roadside seen from a speeding car driven by a madman bent on some aimless journey.
