Summer, At Last

July 5th - A calm comes over the marshlands as the heavens shift to this more weighty equinox of families setting up camp at bay beaches for elongated days of seashells and fiddler crab. The main streets swell to their bloated selves, making room for the vaguely directed muddling from IGA to the last Five and Dime this side of the canal. For this is summer, at last.

Lightning bugs spark in the growing dusk at days end, after the yoga worshipers who dawn the beach, the career joggers who pace the roadways, the youngsters reluctantly belting their life preservers at sailing camp, the aging, sitting beneath wild cherry at the water's edge in their folding kitchen chairs. The wind ebbing off the tide as a lone swimmer strokes the length of Long Beach. Summer, at last.

Away from the buzz of trendy night and this year's rave, drinking sun brewed iced tea at a neighbor's picnic table. Away from Justin Beber and his Canadian girl pal nabbing tweets - spotted at the surf and sport shop in Bridgehampton. Away from Howard Stern, wife in hand, looking particularly middle-aged, navigating onlookers on their way to grab a hamburger. Away from the table hustling wanna-be, parking space thief on the ready to redirect blame. Away from the office and its constant gnawing, the daily mail and monthly reminders.

Summer, at last - in all its overheated, sun-drenched, salt crusted headiness, breathing deeply into the garden bed and exhaling out over the tree tops, tomatoes on the vine. Crabs in the inlet come grab us by the toes and lead us out over our heads for a while to bask in a dead-man's float and let the sky worry.

Summer, at last.