A walker knows what time of year it is, feels it in her bones, knows it because she’s out in the elements and notices the first brisk winds of fall, the tang in the air that means winter is near.

But lately this walker is confused.  On my morning walk from Metro to the office I thought it might be early fall. Gray skies, drizzle, an occasional leaf pasted to the sidewalk.

No, it’s still summer. A strange summer, to be sure. But only August 1.

I glance up at the sky, pull my sweater tighter around me, and make my way quickly inside.