04 September 2002 - 2:58 p.m. Ferns and filtered sunlight brush against the black material of my pants. One frog, One snake. It's a safari on my lunch break. I slide down the path like I'm on inline skates chasing a fat dragonfly around the parking lot. ZzzzzZZzzzZzzzzzzZZzz. . . What do they see through so many lenses. Do they wonder why I chase them? Do they notice? Could I eat one if I had too? Mushrooms are suburbs of the forest. They spin and spiral, almost perfectly still, like a photograph of a thunderstorm--like compressed springs. Today, summer is like a vigorous old man, about whom one might say, "what a life he had." The present viewed in the past tense too early. Summer roars, blows back your hair, startles your eyes, and in a powerful baritone hurls the words, "NO. NOT YET!" and pours a July's worth of heat and humidity down upon us. We crank up air-conditioners and fantasize about frozen drinks and the smell of sun-tan oil. This is the last minute before a lightning storm. There will be steam and puddles and concentric waves racing from rain drops. And there will be me, soaked like a big yellow dog at a lake on a camping trip. I'm going to wear my sandals until I get frost-bite. (0) Comments?