It’s finally warm enough for a morning on the deck, writing, reading the paper, watching Copper in his earnest but futile campaign to catch the sleek crows that wing their way across the yard.

In the distance the sound of a small engine in the sky.

Its putter takes me right to the beach, a hot noon and a low-flying plane with an “All-You-Can-Eat Buffet” or “Free Jazz on the Pier” banner streaming behind it. 

It’s Memorial Day. It’s warmer than 42 degrees. It’s finally summer.