Вино из одуванчиков

           Ifonlywecouldfigureawaytokeepthosedamfivebillionshadowsunderthosetrees,wecouldstayuphalfthenight,Doug,becausethere’dbenonight!Thereyouare;somethingold,somethingnew."

           "That’soldandnew,allright."DouglaslickedtheyellowTiconderogapencil,whosenamehedearlyloved."Sayitagain."

           "Shadowsareunderfivebilliontrees..."

           Yes,summerwasrituals,eachwithitsnaturaltimeandplace.Theritualoflemonadeorice-teamaking,theritualofwine,shoes,ornoshoes,andatlast,swiftlyfollowingtheothers,withquietdignity,theritualofthefront-porchswing.

           OnthethirddayofsummerinthelateafternoonGrandfatherreappearedfromthefrontdoortogazeserenelyatthetwoemptyeyeringsintheceilingoftheporch.Movingtothegeranium-pot-linedraillikeAhabsurveyingthemildmilddayandmild-lookingsky,hewethisfingertotestthewind,andshuckedhiscoattoseehowshirtsleevesfeltinthewesteringhours.Heacknowledgedthesalutesofothercaptainsonyetotherfloweredporches,outthemselvestodiscernthegentlegroundswellofweather,oblivioustotheirwiveschirpingorsnappinglikefuzzballhanddogshiddenbehindblackporchscreens.

           "Allright,Douglas,let’ssetitup."

           Inthegaragetheyfound,dusted,andcarriedforththehowdah,asitwere,forthequietsummer-nightfestivals,theswingchairwhichGrandpachainedtotheporch-ceilingeyelets.