We’re in a heat advisory, I hear on the radio, all of Washington Country as well as much of Rhode Island then after a few more key words register, I realize I am listening to the morning guy in the evening, a replay and not even one of this morning.
It has been dry, finally I am beginning to notice routinely cut lawns are brown, but in the evening the air turns damp. I hear the salute that floats over the New Harbor at sunset, noticeable earlier every night now that we are in mid-August. I hear it from my house but not from other places, closer to the source, but sheltered by land. We used to sometimes hear the speaker at Champlin’s Yacht Station, or the mumble of the announcements at the State Beach, the time, that the Spring House van would soon be in the parking lot, the exotic trappings of that alien summer that belonged to vacationers.
Monday in town seemed as empty as a summer Monday could be, and then I came home and heard music carrying over the water from the harbor, traveling miles, a trick of no obstruction coupled by a breeze.
