Wild blackberries for days and
Fresh stone fruit, juicy,
Dripping down your chin.
It’s intensely sweaty bike rides
and gliding blissfully down foothills on gloriously temperate nights.
It is wild rides down frigid rivers in
Floating, plastic “Captain’s chairs,”
And cold beer on warm nights,
New friends and late night swims.
Seattle summer is the culmination of
Nine months of yearning, raining discontent,
It’s sun-filled sky, free of clouds,
And solace found in shadow.
Rumor is, even Midwesterners love it here,
Missing not the sticky, humid nights,
Only the perfectly warmed lakes, tucked ‘round every corner.
This season, painfully brief,
is still so perfect,
and in it, I feel utterly at home.