The cicada will sing.
There are days for bare feet. Dirty, small feet running through the long grass. Small feet running past mother's garden, running on the baked sidewalk, on the scorching black driveway. Dirty little feet that get washed in a bucket of cool water at dusk.
The moonbeam coreopsis are almost ready. There will be a riot of yellow star-shaped flowers. The blanket flowers will open, warm and saturated with yellow and red. The coneflower will reach higher and higher, but those roadside daisies and the blue chicory will bloom even with no care and no rain.
The grass is growing tall again, and soon the stores will be filled with strawberries in little green boxes, and then plums, and peaches. Peach pie. Corn on the cob that didn't come from thousands of miles away. Drive in movies, back yard badminton, afterbite for your itchies, aloe for your burns. What gets the chlorine sting out of eyes? You might as well wear your bathing suit all day, even when you're making your chalk drawings with the girls. You need it for those tiny, grass-filled kiddy pools. The sprinkler's broken. You stomped on it right in the middle of the fun.
At dusk, the june bugs circle the trees.
At dusk, the thunder rumbles across the sky.
At dusk, the children come in to bed.
When the grass is very tall, when the air is heady with jungle growth, and cut lawns, and when the crickets buzz incessantly, it will almost be over. When the shadows stretch and lean across the path, even though it is still warm, it will almost be over. When the chrysanthemum begins to bloom, it will almost be over. When the Sears catalogue appears on the front porch, it's really almost over.
Have you noticed lately how tall the grass is getting?
* this was for a Studio30 Plus writing prompt; "The Grass Is Growing Tall Again"