The inevitable is near. . .
When you grow up in Minnesota, you can't help it. The end of summer means one thing only. The future is predictable here; eventual and obvious.
And so, before the inevitable becomes the day-to-day, we make a run for it.
I'm off to the Northshore, one more time.
Earlier this summer, I went north. North west, however, is not north shore. No loon call, no gulls.
This time, I'm taking due north - snaking the roads that parallel the highways to get my fill.
The leaves, they say, are beginning to turn.
The sky here, in this sleepy little city, promises the end of my summer.
Bring it on - - and in the meanwhile, I'll chase it down.