With the deck done, August days are spent outside behind the close trees, west where the sun can only get through branch by branch, leaf by leaf just a little. Cherty Ridge has turned dusky in the sun’s shadow, the sun reaching over it, not casting upon it. The sun will set behind it soon. Between the oak, the one with the scarred hull where I cut a low, large branch years ago, the oak has wept dead wood all summer, the collar on the branch stub closing in on the black center where worms have taken root in the weeping. Between the scarred oak and the maple that has finally grown bigger than the dogwoods, a spider web has been strung to catch the last of the sun. This is where the insects are drawn. All I can see, sitting here on the deck, sweating, are small white concentric circles. But the lines go out to the branches. This summer has been about that faith—what the sun will let me see and what I know lies invisible in the light everyday until fall.
