The last sweet days of summer taunt me wherever I go. Whether it is in a stolen moment, on a silent deck, sans children, relishing the first pages of a new novel, or in a raucous family walk along the Hudson river, watching a surprise of fireworks explode over New Jersey, it whispers that it's almost done. Enjoy me, I am almost yesterday.

In summer, I love to hear the slap of the screen door first thing in the morning, signaling awakening. I love the silence that perks up slowly with the rising households, like coffee in an old percolator. Children run out to play, still in their pajamas, and I stay in mine as I write my morning words. A begonia can capture my attention for minutes, just by being lovely to look at.

Time passes in a hammock in a perfect, glacial, pace. Unlike the bed, which seems, even in my hedonist summer mode, too indulgent for mid-day, a hammock has a view only of the sky, interrupted only by the trees. No bookcase to straighten, or closets to tidy. Just air and sun and sky to blend with the random thought.

It doesn't seem right for this to end, just as the flowers are all blooming, and the pool is warm, the pesto plentiful. Even the tempestuous phlox wags her scarlet blooms, daring me to stay. As we were leaving for the city last week, the Rose of Sharon, recalcitrant all summer, managed nine blossoms simultaneously, a record! It's not fair; such a wet August, yielding such a bright September.

The city hardly seems to change with the seasons. The incessant background noise is always there, a dull roar punctuated by sirens. Here, in the river valley, the sounds alone can clue you in. The honking of geese means autumn. The perfect silence of a snowfall, winter. The busy river noises hint of summer, and who could mistake the gossiping birds arriving in spring? In the city, though, the growing season lingers on, encouraged by the heat buried in the bedrock below. It is always a shock to find the tomato plants upstate shriveled by frost when they are still thriving in the Victory gardens in Washington Market Park.

But just as I am deep in separation anxiety about summer's end and the return to work in the unforgiving urb, the city holds temptation of its own. Recently, after days spent scrubbing a seasonal accumulation of soot from every surface of our loft, we escaped to the movies. There is a new theater in our neighborhood. On what was once part of the Hudson River, a 16-screen lollapalooza has risen over the landfill of Battery Park City. We can walk to this theater; in the past a trip to the movies always meant subways or cabs. Here, my daughter sees schoolmates in the lobby; it is still a neighborhood.

As we left the movie, we heard loud noises, like gunfire or thunder, but without lightning. Suddenly, I saw a bright light in the sky over New Jersey and we walked closer to the river trying to peer beyond the new high-rises to the other side. "Fireworks!" announced my daughter, delighted by the unannounced display. We leaned against the railing; the Hudson ahead of us, full and dark and undulating under the night sky. It looks huge to me now, I thought, next to our little piece of the Delaware. The fireworks exploded almost casually, rising up to the night in bright hues and falling back to the river, spent. It was hard not to think this was New York, welcoming us back.

It does seem to me that New York City is becoming more seductive and accessible just as I am more willing and ready than ever to leave it. For years, living three blocks from the Hudson River meant you had no more access to it than a Nebraskan. If you dared to cross the West Side Highway, you hiked among rubble and broken glass and risked being escorted back by an intolerant cop. Now, the area has parks and paths and decorative ironwork. There is a sculpture garden, a children's playground and fountains. If you can get your bike downstairs, and past the taxi-cab assassins, you can bike four miles up-river unimpeded. You can even kayak, if you dare to compete with the tugs and ferries that ply the harbor. I've seen it done.

The fact is, this time of year, before the short dark days of winter descend on our psyches, even the hard rock of the big city can yield delicious fruit. It will be hard to say good-bye and it will be gone before we know it. Enjoy me, I am almost yesterday.