The days are warm and mellow and long, with plenty of daylight after my long work days for walks around the block, strolls around the pond to catch frogs, and wanderings in to the woods to pick raspberries.
I sit on my porch and enjoy the pastels of my flourishing hydrangeas.
I let the summer dusk fade, but still have no desire to call the boys in from their bike riding up and down the street. I let them stay outside and chase after fireflies.
When I finally tuck them in bed and kiss their blonde heads, they smell like cut grass, popcicles, and water from the hose, which is what every little boy should smell like in summer.
The hot, green days could go on forever, and I would be content.