A gentle breeze stirs the thick humid air. The taunting chant of the cicadas, that just a few weeks ago surrounded us in an almost deafening symphony of their heat song, is now only a scattered ensemble. Soon they will be completely silent and we probably won’t even notice they’ve gone.
Summer dies a slow, long death here. And winter is only the brief cold muddiness that separates us from the next long hot summer. But soon, and only for a few short days, we will revel in Fall. Come, thou beautiful Fall, with your cool dry brown crispiness! When we can step out of the door, not into the wet mud of winter or the dripping sweat of Summer, but the refreshing dry breathable air of Fall!
And the quiet hawk draws loose circles in the sky above us.