Days like summer

It is the middle of may and it feels like August. Warm early in the morning, tee shirt warm, with a bit of pleasant chill, a freshness in the air. The channel is smooth, reflecting the opposite shore nearly perfectly; a seagull swoops and dances in unison with its' reflection. In the distance, the fragile early morning mist hangs tenuous, veiling rows of poplar trees and expansive slight-violet plowed fields. The just-risen sun is impossibly orange and cheerful. I am headed to the cafe for coffee. Only the birds are my neighbors. The wisteria across from the cafe looks like a grape arbor, with white fruit. The flowers are delicately fragrant, exotic as if from a far away place. The blooms are dropping, a mass of white a week ago changing slowly to green. We get about seventy wisteria bloomings in our lifetime. So short, so few.