A torrential downpour over the Androscoggin River makes the other side look as though it’s shrouded in mist. If I hadn’t seen the green foreground, I’d say we were further along in the season than August, but perhaps this is a foreshadowing of what is inevitably to come. I am already beginning to see tiny signs of exhaustion in the greenery around me. First it was the delicate and shy appearance in the spring. Then it was the explosive growth of early summer. Then it was the deepening maturity and lushness of midsummer. Now it’s a slight shrinking.
Most people wouldn’t notice it, but every morning I stand in exactly the same spot and peer out my window in exactly the same direction. I do this every morning without fail when I greet the new day. About a week ago, I began to notice the shrinking. The treetops I looked out upon, so lush and swollen with life and beauty, suddenly seemed ever so slightly smaller. There was a bit of a sigh, a slight hanging of the head. Again, this would not be noticeable to most people, but I saw it. I wondered if I was wrong, but I wonder that every year, yet every year the inevitable occurs.
And this year will be no different. For now, we have time and the party still goes on. The rain will wash the fields and make them fresh again. The trees will plump up with moisture. The river will swell with the rainwater that it greedily confiscates. Everything will be as it was before. Except it won’t be.
|The Androscoggin River in the mists.|