A week of meetings, books to reread, papers to organize, calendars to plot out. The summer ends. And in the evenings, I grabbed the last moments without essays to grade–dinners out, friends and former students to see off to new lives. Teas and dinners and shopping. Then collapsing into sleep filled with lesson plans and projects. My camera slept. Seamus Heaney died. And just as we are about to celebrate once again the power of his Beowulf filled as it is with little Irish subversions of the English urtext.
In praise of summer, of poets, of Beowulf coming from the sea, of surfers and their ilk, of slow days, hot sun, cold water, and riding the cresting waves of time.