At our home in the woods in mid-August, crickets have begun their late summer song that will continue until a hard frost nips their sweet, high voices.
On Sunday, I sat on the patio, and two hummingbirds whirred by, chasing each other as they tried to defend the feeders. The fountain bubbled and flowed—a comforting sound. A male cardinal sang its trilling song. In the dense green of the late summer woods, the red flash of his feathers eluded me.
Next door, the rooster crowed, a high pitched warning to any roosters that might be nearby. (There were none.) The hens clucked softly as they pecked and scratched at the lawn, looking for tasty tidbits. Get those ticks, hens!
Cars went by. Even though we live in the woods, the road is nearby. On this hot afternoon, there were no walkers.
Little Miss Watson meowed and trilled hello as she came onto the patio for a visit. I admired those little white whiskers.
The garden is nearly past its best, but I still enjoyed looking at it.
Sunday on the Narrows Pond Road. I could almost pretend it was just another lazy afternoon in August, that a silent invisible enemy was not out there doing its worst.
At the same time, it’s hard to envision returning to the free and easy life we once had. Will we, even when a vaccine comes out?
That is to be determined.