Falling

The weather has been milder lately, the time of the year when you can honestly believe that summer will end this year, evidence to the contrary. When I lived in Chicago, I was tickled by the way the people would run out on the first slightly springlike day, carrying blankets and wearing bathing suits, to pretend that winter was done. That's because a Midwest winter is as long as a South Texas summer. I've gone to the closet and fingered a couple of tweed coats against the day I can put them on again. We've had things going on outdoors. The birds, bless 'em for their perseverance and optimism, are passing through to the jumping-off spot of the island for the flight to Yucatán and points south. We have a lot of bright little ones hanging around in our trees. A couple days ago, the bayfront was all aboil with bait, maybe a half acre of little fish churning up the surface, while the brown pelicans dive-bombed them and the gulls hung around looking for opportunities. Herself said she saw small skates, flounder, and drum lying underneath the schools. A waterfront resident told her that the porpoises had been whuffing and blowing all night long. Everything ends eventually, even South Texas summers. But not yet, I think.