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rejectomorphIs it strange that I can already sense the decline of the year? A Mediterranean climate brings dessication when the evenings are yet long and spring rains are but recently departed. A few hot, dry days are sufficient to give the landscape a disheveled appearance, inducing in the observer a sense of melancholy which, in damper climes, would not arrive until autumn. The air carries that scent that is peculiar to grass when it is beginning to turn brown- a mixture of decay and dustiness. Neither the scent nor the mood is repellent, but they are certainly more conducive to brooding on mortality than to lighthearted thoughts.
It is different near the coast, where cooling afternoon breezes are apt to bring rich and energizing oceanic odors, redolent of life. Here in this inland realm, the streams grow sluggish, and the swaths of land between them display an almost early-autumnal quality, lying quiet and shaggy, like an old lady napping beneath a worn shawl knitted in shades of yellow and brown, and a bit of fading green. The hazed afternoon sun falls as though through dusty window sheers unmoved by any breeze. It is the essence of desuetude.
Evening brings some relief, as the heat rises and draws a cooler air from the forests. The slightest rustle of leaves is like a sigh. Night remembers spring long after the days have forgotten it. The crickets begin to chirp and the jasmine releases its perfume, driving out the melancholy thoughts. The dryness of the landscape is concealed, and can be forgotten for a while in the soft moonlight. I can almost smell the distant sea.
It is different near the coast, where cooling afternoon breezes are apt to bring rich and energizing oceanic odors, redolent of life. Here in this inland realm, the streams grow sluggish, and the swaths of land between them display an almost early-autumnal quality, lying quiet and shaggy, like an old lady napping beneath a worn shawl knitted in shades of yellow and brown, and a bit of fading green. The hazed afternoon sun falls as though through dusty window sheers unmoved by any breeze. It is the essence of desuetude.
Evening brings some relief, as the heat rises and draws a cooler air from the forests. The slightest rustle of leaves is like a sigh. Night remembers spring long after the days have forgotten it. The crickets begin to chirp and the jasmine releases its perfume, driving out the melancholy thoughts. The dryness of the landscape is concealed, and can be forgotten for a while in the soft moonlight. I can almost smell the distant sea.
