In Michigan it is not necessary to look at the calendar to see what month it is. Just look at what is falling out of the sky.
A stiff breeze last month brought a torrent of brown whirlybird seed-things spinning and falling from blue zenith; helocopters all around. May.
Precisely on schedule, the cottonwoods shed their fuzz on June 1 and have not run out of the white stuff yet. It piles up in the gutters, along the edges of lawns, in the filters of all sorts of things, and in all the major, exposed openings of the human body, most especially the eyes and nose and mouth. June.
Now, all around the backyard, on any flat surface, green, yellow, and brown powder settles; the dust of blooming weeds and ornamentals that will change color but not go away until fall. Summer.
Bright leaves blowing and tossing signal autumn. White flakes dancing the same rumba, falling from the same unidentifiable locations segue into winter. Waters, in great gushing drafts and delicate mists, cascade down from higher places. Spring.
I could spend hours just looking at stuff fall from heaven. "All good gifts around us are sent from heaven above; so thank the Lord for all his love."
