My lilac bush is blooming. That is not a euphemism for something improper. My actual front-yard lilac bush has sprouted several blossoms. When I looked out the front window, I thought some trash had blown onto the bush. Or perhaps a crafty giant arachnid had ensconced some limbs with webs. I sent Hick out to investigate on his way to the barn. I sent The Pony to take a picture with his phone.
Never have I ever seen lilacs bloom in September. They're an April kind of treat in these here parts. I'm giving props to the goats who stood on their hind legs to devour my lilacs and limbs and shoots and leaves. Or perhaps to Hick, who wrapped a limb with duct tape in an effort to prevent me from noticing that his caprine kids had broken a big branch.
Still. This does not seem normal.
The rest of the earth is scorched and parched. Temperatures have soared into the high nineties for weeks. But something set my lilacs to blooming. It's the bush that Hick dug up from my grandma's yard. The bush that took seven years to bloom. From the grandma who passed away last September.