The Feeling of August

Is it me, or the month of August, when stagnant, humid air seems to seep into the soul? Yes, for those who stick it out and remain in town through August, there are glorious flowers and a few things done that needed doing, but still the month is like a remembered dream in which the desire to run, run, quickly, is foiled by legs too heavy to move. I look at these slow-growing shrubs along Hamilton Ave, buried beneath a sea of bindweed that, as relentless as time in its ambition has begun to engulf the house as well, and know the feeling.