She checks the time, and it’s later than she thought. Towards the end of summer, the dawns stay darker for longer. So she draws herself out of bed. Beneath her bare feet, the floor has a fleeting chill. The line of light between the curtains beckons, and she parts it with one hand.
Outside is the promise of yet another glorious late summer day, all cloudless sky and silver-gilt sunlight. A few rippled clouds linger, pink and lavender. And behind the early morning’s traffic rumble is another sound, a crinkle, a simmer, something between a tasty culinary sound and a song, rising from the forested hills that cup Wellington.
It’s the cicadas. The two-inch bugs are having a banner year, celebrating by leaving molted carapaces around and dashing in through open windows. And, she thinks, they have a message for everyone in cupped in Wellington’s valleys.
Summer’s ready. That simmering sound means it’s being served up. Eat it up, in big bites, while it’s perfectly warm. Don’t stint yourself. Everyone’s looser, more scattered than usual – forgive them, with weather like this. Take the time yourself, because it doesn’t get any better than this, before winter starts to lash again.
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