The lightning bugs in Jersey are ridiculous now, and the dusk honeysuckle aroma wraps around me like Granny's afghan. Light matters for the cerebral among us, but the honeysuckle takes me past language.
Granny's dead, has been for a long time, but tonight she has arisen again, as real as the shadowy outline of the hop bine crossing the slate sky a few feet away.
In a few weeks June's tumescence will turn rancid, as the sun starts to creak its way back south again, as it always has.
But tonight it is still edging north, and Puck and Peaseblossom play with us in the late shadows, Saturn rising in the eastern sky, when anything (and everything) are still possible.
Bugs that flash for love, ringed planets, impossibly delicious air, and critters who dodge my slaps to steal some blood, my blood, so they may have some children--it's June again, and always has been.
I love June.....