But at my back I alwaies hear
Time's winged Chariot hurrying near...
Those Andrew Marvell lines are just poetic abstractions until you reach a certain age and then they become daily realities. The long, never-ending summers of childhood now seem to fly past in a mere moment of time. They are here; they are gone.
Time may be a long, cool drink, but there is always a bottom to the glass. The older I get the more poignant the end of summer becomes. Euro-cultures tend to see time as a yardstick, a linear phenomenon. Other modes of thought think of it as a loop, a circle. The 'completion' of which is back at its own beginning. What that is for a human life might be dust, or simply a state of unknowing, a return to the cosmos. A gathering up and reclaiming by the Great Spirit.
Can anyone believe that August is gone?