There comes a warning like a spy
A shorter breath of Day
A stealing that is not a stealth
And Summers are away —
~ Emily Dickinson
(The Poems of Emily Dickinson, #1560)
Chapel Hill, North Carolina
We tried out this trail on another lovely, low humidity day. We wound up getting lost and reluctantly decided to cut through somebody’s yard to get back to a road. Summer is fading away, as it always does, each day a minute or two shorter than the last. Emily’s poem has an added layer of meaning for me, now, as I take note of Tim’s breaths becoming shorter, too.