Summer/Winter

Summer. The Sun sits high in the sky, a mighty king on its throne of royal blue. Its light and heat surround and overpower; what originally seemed invigorating and energizing quickly becomes blinding and dizzying. Everything—the light, the heat, the air, the colors—is in overwhelming amounts, and to be amongst it all is to have my senses attacked, leaving me standing motionless on the trail, drained from trying to soak it all in.

Vibrant. The brilliant blue of the sky peeks through the awning of trees over the trail, robins’ eggs and blue jays keeping hidden in shame because of the way their blues pale in comparison. The leaves seem to have been taken down, dyed an impossible green, and sewn in an over surplus to trees and vines and bushes, an overlay of emerald lace upon a garment of rich, warm browns. A solitary cloud hangs suspended in the sky—the pure white of a fresh snowfall, frozen next to the oppressive Sun.

Alive. The trees line the trail sporadically, standing near and far, short and tall, thick and thin. Where the trees are not, other vegetation is—bushes full and covered in spurts of blood-red berries, grasses lean and yellow that stand higher than my head. The only space between the life in the small wood is the tired path I stand on, and even there, amidst the brown dirt and chipped rocks, can be found tiny clusters of dainty white flowers on tender green stems, hiding in the shade under the umbrella of leaves and vines.

Hot. The air is thick and heavy; walking through it feels more like swimming. It sticks to me, clinging to my face, crawling down my throat, soaking my skin with its sweltering heat and stifling moisture. The heat blossoms from the dry, cracked earth under my feet, meeting the rays from the oppressive Sun to form a walless and doorless sauna; there is no escape. The buzz of numerous insects surrounds me, nature humming in the heat. The trees are full and green—so alive—reclothed from winter bareness by the nurturing of spring. The branches hang heavy over the rough trail, as though the weight of the fat green leaves and the thick air is almost too much to bear.

Slow. The air sits still, holding its breath, waiting. (For what? Autumn?) When a breeze does come, it seems to flow rather than blow, slowly creeping through the trees like syrup from the trunk of a maple. Time seems to have stopped, resting itself in the shade cast by the tangle of trees and vines and bushes, seeking out the air a few degrees cooler than that in the Sun, fanning itself slowly while leaning against rough bark, waiting for the heat to wane before continuing on its way. I sit down and join it, finding my own tree to lean on and closing my eyes to pass the time as I wait for

Winter. The Sun rests lower now, its light not as brilliant, its heat faint. Everything is scarce. The air is thin. The heat is gone. The light is shallow, far away. I shiver from the cold, and the trees shiver with me. Branches quake in the brisk air, their protective coat of leaves worn thin and full of holes. The freshness seems revitalizing at first, sharpening my senses. Details are clear. I am alive, alert, energized. But stimulating gives way to freezing, and soon the bitter cold makes me wish that I had someplace to run to.

Faded. The sky is still its bright, cloudless blue, but the color seems subdued, softer. Green has abandoned the leaves and grasses, and waits in hibernation for spring to come again. The few dried leaves still clinging stubbornly to the trees share color with the many crisp fallen ones, their browns matching those of the hard frozen soil. Grey has replaced brown to color the tree trunks, the riches of reds and yellows absent from the dried bark. The grasses are antique pictures, yellowed versions of what used to be.

Dying. The trees are thin—sickly patients left out in the cold, unlothed and without doctor or nurse, starving for warmth and for the shelter they themselves used to be. The wood feels bare and empty for the distance that seems to have enticed its way between the trees. The distance is parasitic, sucking the life from shrubs and undergrowth, choking the vines. It remains where life does not, the champion. Everything is bare and empty, no snow covering the ground to fill the gaps that stretch between the scraggly remaining life, dirt and wood all that is left. Edges fade as colors blend. Shadows are the only proof that my surroundings are not simply a canvas of brown and gray, painted by one who has no hope of the vibrance of summer.

Cold. The air whips and spins, bites and stings, cuts and burns. It is a million predators rolled into an immense and invisible opponent. The wind finds every tiny opening in my coat and slips inside, raising goosebumps on my skin, impossible to run away from. I am in a freezer, the door shut and locked from the outside. My nose is frozen, as are my fingers and toes. The air raises a flush on my cheeks. Time is running, trying to keep warm by remaining in motion, attempting to race the wind. Short of breath from the thin air, it uses one last burst of energy to quickly speed the sunset by, dropping the Sun from the sky like an apple fallen from a tree, and then finding a bare trunk to rest on for the lengthy night. I huddle next to it for warmth, using the tree to block the wind, and close my eyes to sleep as I wait for

Summer.