Every year around this time in New England, there is a subtle but instantly discernible change in the weather. The temperatures may say “summer,” as might the trees still decked with leaves, but there is something in the air—a budding crispness, fresh scents, valedictory echoes—that tells us that a change is nigh.
There is a kindred phenomenon, I have noticed, that heralds a shift in the political weather. For the last several months, the narrative has been building that Donald Trump’s fortunes have turned. The polls bode ill for GOP victories in the midterms. The war in Iran is a disaster. The president’s legacy, we are told, is in jeopardy. The wheels are coming off the MAGA express. That wheezy suspiration you hear is the sound of establishment Republicans gratefully scuttling back to their altars of irrelevance and dignified failure. They are joined by the media, the Democrats, and the squamous denizens of the deep state who have been telling us that the “walls are closing in on Trump” for years. Now, finally, at long last, they think that the blessed deadly movement is happening.
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