Last night, through the open window, I heard the garden gate gently open and the padded voices of warm greetings between age old friends. The crickets, in anticipation, rested their fiddles. All was still except for the muted voices of August and September.
September whispered her admiration for August's work.
"I see you have been so busy and I know you must be tired and ready for rest."
"Yes, I am tired and I am ready to relax and to hand everything over to you, September. Look at all you carry with you..your paints, your brushes and the glorious colors of your threads and the gleaming of your sharp needles. It must be such a pleasure and a joy, this work that you will do."
"It is, but truly I only begin it. October will come along and add the flourishes and brilliance that I cannot do. And I have heard that November eventually erases all but the reluctant browns of the steady oaks.
"Do you ever find it a bit ironic and startling that each of us will smudge and change the unique beauty of one another?" asked July.
Stifled warm laughter flowed in from both of these amazing forces.
There continued soft exchanges until the midnight striking of the clock. All fell silent until I heard the small rustle of the calendar page as July nestled herself against June's back.
"Let me tell you about September," she breathed to June.