Gone

August is, almost. The neighborhood farmers' market was brimming with every kind of fruit and vegetable ever desired, as well as handmade pasta, fish and meat, baked items, and tempting stuffs such as flavored hand-churned butter. Of course some of these things can be grown or made at home, but it's a small capitulation to consumer temptation to pick up one little container of chipotle/lime/garlic butter, or a little box of perfect raspberries. Or a couple of old-fashioned big pretzels studded with kosher salt. Dramatic clouds threatened rain, but only delivered about four score heavy drops.
The Robert Penn Warren reader is providing a good look at his development. He surely was Faulkneresque in his early days, probably an influence difficult for a young male Southern writer to dodge.