Languid June. The name has cachet. A woman sits near me. The bartender asks: Same again, Languid June?
We had a spring, but I missed it. The Solstice is next. I sit and look toward the lake. The maple leaves flicker.
It’s so quiet, that you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. Two women talk softly as they kayak past our dock. Crickets buzz. The bullfrogs croak amorously. Noisy? No. It’s quiet and languid.
Beyond our hearing, there is a riot of activity. When I look out at the trees, it feels like the Dog Days of August.
“Living in the North Country requires a creative outlet. I do some watercolor, read and I write. The solitude here allows me that privilege.” – the author