|1930s/ 1940s/ 1950s|
|1960s/ 1970s/ 1980s|
|1990s/ 2000s/ 2010s|
|2000 / 2001 / 2002|
|2003 / 2004 / 2005|
|2006 / 2007 / 2008|
|2009 / 2010 / 2011|
|2012 / 2013 / 2014|
|2015 / 2016 / 2017|
|~ 2018 next year|
|~ 2019 soon enough|
|~ 2020 Hope we are still around|
|~ 2021 Can't think about it|
Beach time at the end of September of mostly tranquility and change. There is no crowd, there are no people
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September Dune Beach time at the end of September of mostly tranquility and change. There is no crowd, there are no people. Am I alone?
There is shelter here, not across the broad plane of sand but on a singular dune in front of a nursing home. It is not much of a dune, it is lonely, by itself. The only excitement it sees are the topless women who congregate near here during the heat and humidity of summer. The dune doesnt bother to get excited though because it knows the women will be gone come September.
It is September. It might be thought quiet here but it is not. And it can not be. Dune grass grasps the grating sand that scurries amongst it on the breath of the wind. You can hear it. Golden rod seduces bees and flies in a dance of collection. Birds hawk and call to each other and their words proclaim it is September.
The golf stream and El Nno are keeping the waves warm. Clouds, pretending to be tropical drift in and over the antiquated and under renovation bathhouse. The clouds might be puffy and white where they not under another stratospheric blank (a thin one, way up there, but it is still a blanket). They take on an ominous patina: seeming to gather in larger and larger crowds. Sometimes they let the sun through a little, but mostly not. The suns struggle is a childs, trying to wriggle its way through a crowd, trying to see a parade. Are these really clouds? Might be just the ocean fog raised and stressed to a tizzy by wind and wave, for it is September.
Bugs are buzzing here and there. They are not interested in me, they are in the dance of life, collecting pollen for the children of next September.
Flies are joining their bee relatives too but they have seen too much of summer already. They are too long gone for buzzing. They are slogging along in a dance of old age and waiting for their eventual termination.
And the wind blows, adding an unidentifiable roar to restless waves that really should be higher. They are September waves. Why is the wind not giving them more furry?
You might get dizzy looking at the clouds, some go this way, some go that. Makes me wonder which way this weather is really heading. But it doesnt mater. Eventually the north wind will hitch a ride to this impending day. Cold air will make us colder, for it is September.
Days are shorter but not short. Nights are longer but not long. The balance of light and dark, life and death, warm and cold is here. I look around, there are dark clouds in every direction but not immediately overhead, up there is a spot of blue and the September sun. It is seeing the last of the parade that is summer.
It is September
Dennis - 1999
September, weather, writing, coisacoisa, coisa, beach, New, York, City, crowd, clouds, proclaim