willsummerMy Apple devices chime and I am transported to Montana, 10 again, feeling the grass tickling my bare legs, the warmth of the late Sunday afternoon — the forbidding return of structured learning still a couple of weeks away. Sister Hope has sent me a picture of nephew Will at home outside Helena, two-month-old chicken Berry exploring the lawn, unafraid of the long-legged, tousled-hair boy who’s been slipping him grasshoppers. Thanks, Hope. And, Will, may all your summers be wonderful. “Summer,” my sister writes, “fleeting moments like a flash of feathers.”