The sun is getting that odd flat quality that always comes in September. More than any other month, September makes me think of other Septembers, and they all blend together. Waiting for the school bus in the fog, driving to Santa Fe for the first time, Homer in hand, or coming back home again with Joey, four months pregnant and totally unsettled. It's all like some musical montage that bleeds from one scene to the next, and I get spacey, watching the montage go in my head all month. Connected to this devotion to memory that September holds is the knowledge that all of the wildflowers growing here and there are about to die. They're holding on, browning at the edges, insisting on living until the first frost really gets them. September wild flower gathering is different- wading through the wilting masses to find those few that are still vibrant, bringing in a triumphant little bundle. It's more precious and satisfying. Squinting in the flat September sun, you'll probably find some good ones if you look.
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