Summer Nostalgia and Baby Bobcats

September arrives heralding the end of summer.  When I lived in Virginia, Labor Day weekend was bittersweet and overshadowed by a sad nostalgia for another summer that had much too quickly come to an end.  The pools closed, the weather grew cooler, and the first colors of autumn tinged the edges of leaves.    Schools and colleges were back in session, and vacationers had returned to their jobs.  The stores began stocking for Halloween, and cleared their shelves of warm season stock by offering tempting sales.  Everything just felt different.

Living in the Sonoran Desert, I no longer feel that tug of dolefulness for another summer gone by.  Summer still lives and will not fade until late November when our temperatures begin to drop to the lower 70's and the nights become cool.  We'll throw open the windows, bid the air conditioning adios, and exchange swimming for hiking.  The pool will never close, but its heater will be shut off beginning November 15, not to resume its activity again until mid-March.   Grilling and picnicking will continue; here it's a year-round activity.  But there will still be signs of a changing season as the white-winged doves begin their journey south, the white-throated swifts disappear, and outdoor fire pits and chimeneas light up the night.

Last night we had a violent thunderstorm; August wasn't going quietly.  We had some rain and the winds blew so hard the windows shook and trees bent toward the ground.  Keith found a baby bobcat taking refuge in the chocolate flowers of our front courtyard.  I also think it was stalking the goldfinches that feed on the spent flowers' seeds.  It quickly leaped over the wall when it saw him, running off, I imagine, to find its mama who no doubt hovered nearby.  She has visited us a few times in our back courtyard, sipping from our bird watering bowls, and watching for prey.  But she doesn't stay long.  Soon the kitten will be ready to claim its own part of the desert.  The cycle of life continues. 

September always reminds me of the endless cycle of birth, living, dying, and changing seasons--even where perpetual summer thrives and winters languish in the warm Sonoran sun.