Summer asks too much of me. It doesn’t let me be. It tells me that five o’clock is the time to start something. To go into the water or out into the field, to splash or to mow, to walk or to hike, to drive. Somewhere. Anywhere. But it’s only eight o’clock in the afternoon and the sun is shining, how could you be still? People say these things and I can’t say I don’t agree with them. Summer makes me move and do until I’m tired and weary but the sun is still shining and so I must. Who could rest with such demands? Winter lets me be. It leaves me to my fire and my den with the curtains drawn and the tennis match from two Saturdays ago where two of my favorite players played in an arena in some European city that I’ve never been. Summer would never allow such a disgusting waste of time. Winter leaves me alone, to do as I please when I please, and I couldn’t do without it.