Spring begins as a few tentative notes, shrill and unschooled, random and eager to break with the long months of frigid tradition that winter imposed. Then, nature is a group of children running and shrieking with joy as the yellows and greens explode from the treetops and the first leaves unfurl from the soil. By May, her song is full and rich and hints at the depth that her notes will develop during June and early July, a sure and steady melody that carries us through long warm sundrenched days and nights bathed in star and moonlight with the occasional deep bass roll or sharp retort of thunder to break up what to beach-goers and sunbathers is not monotonous at all. August picks up the melody where late July leaves off, the air a muggy somnolent blend of sounds highlighted by the buzzing of bees and hummingbirds and the more mournful sound now of the loon, as if it knows, which it surely must, that its days here are once again numbered.
These August nights belong to crickets, those clandestine little creatures that sometimes appear out of nowhere during the day to hop across my porch or from under my car. I’ve seen the tiniest young ones as well as the largest old-timers, and I always, always enjoy their nightly serenade. It occurred to me recently that their unique chirp is actually suggestive of something cold. It’s short, shrill, precise and icy in its delivery, speaking, or singing, rather, to what lies ahead in this, a place where each season is given its own full shrift.
As much as I love fall and rank it as my personal favorite, I do have a fondness for August as well as for its shortening warm days and longer cooler nights. Her song lulls me, sets me down gently after the torridness and sleeplessness of July, gives me pause to contemplate what has just passed and what may lie ahead during the year’s explosively colorful culmination. It’s a pleasant transition for those who thrill to whatever nature offers, who find beauty and something to love in all the seasons, and to the songs they sing as much as to their sights.
— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Lyman, who enjoys exploring the woods of southern Maine, can be reached via email at rachell1950@hotmail.com.
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