example #10 because that seems like the right number of examples in Examples of flashs past

Late August learned poetry from the dun hills and wide yellow moons, but settled on a prosaic mood. Late August loved Autumn and would not believe it could compare. It was not just the colors, but her disposition; breezy and stormy but not cold, a season of passions. August only read Autumns letters though and had never been there to meet her, or hold her or answer her questions of Summer rains and lazy drunken days down on the river, bright sails and low cut swim suits.

June never gave a shit, cranky old bitch with drunken teenagers in pickup trucks, hot tar and Gemini’s. July was a bit aloof with her fireworks and picnics on the hillside, double headers at Fenway, Candlestick, Tiger Stadium. But August could smell Autumns Cider mills, hear the sheaving of September, taste the blood iron taste of grain harvest, and the bitter of hops still on the vine.

I don’t know much about the seasons, only what August has told me in dog days and sidewalk chalk, popsicles and screen doors. February talks to me sometimes too, but morbid and monotone, like a retiring forensics professor or a maiden aunts war stories. So, all I know of seasons is how late August yearns for Autumn with a cuckolds libido, with the ardor of gigolo, with all the heat and dust and stale air and memory carried past the hills and into the high sierra, powdering the plain with futile prospects.