Over
Summer grass all that remains of soldiers’ dreams Basho With a calendar month of summer left, the season has already turned. On still days, sound carries in a new way, as if propagated differently within the increasingly oblique angle of light, and the light itself, travelling a greater distance through the atmosphere, catches dust and smoke so that everything swims, resinous, as if in amber. River fog gathers overnight, then lifts cool air over ridge-saddles along the valley each morning. With the swing of the planet away from the sun, we sit now at the slow centre of weather systems as they pass, rather than at their fast-moving edges. For...