The Farm at the End of Summer
The bus drops you at the end of a long dirt lane, and the first thing you notice is the quiet. Not empty quiet — full quiet, the kind made of bees and wind and far-off crows, all of it stitched together like a blanket.
“Madison!” Aunt Bee comes down the porch steps with her arms already open. She smells like honey and woodsmoke, and her hug creaks your ribs in the best way. “Six whole weeks. We are going to have adventures, you and I.”
She has no idea how right she is.
Supper won't be ready for an hour, she says. The farm rolls out around you in the golden light — the crooked old orchard on the hill, and the bee yard humming down by the fence, where Aunt Bee keeps her hives painted every color of a crayon box.
Overhead, way off at the edge of the sky, clouds are stacking up. They look almost purple.