"Urge and urge," wrote Walt Whitman, "always the procreant urge of the world." At the height of late summer nothing could seem more true. This year's garden has yielded a dizzying volume of cucumbers, and the tomato vines sprawl everywhere, while down in the pond a troop of tadpoles prepare for whatever lies ahead for the next generation of frogs.
But of course there's a counter rhythm, too. I'm not teaching this semester, but I still found myself unable to resist buying a new book bag, and a new pair of shoes. Season of new beginnings, starting again. Cool nights, warming colors, sharper stars, friends coming back together after time scattered, the stimulation of a new season in the city.