Almost all the elements of a fine summer afternoon are in place, wide fields, wooden fences and blue skies that seem to go on and on forever, waving meadow grasses and buttery wildflowers, whirring grasshoppers and chirping crickets.
Beau and I lean against the fence and remember other visits here, the dry fragrance of the old cedar posts and rails and the way they creaked when air currents passed through them, the sharp cry of hawks hunting overhead, the soft susurrus of rustling field grasses, how the voice of the creek in the woods behind us softened as the season flowed ever onward.
We remember trips to the lake up the road to listen to loons calling across the water at sunset and watch herons hunting the shallows, our stops for ice cream at the general store on the way home. There were three of us then, and there are three of us now, but one of us is silent and leaves no footprints along the trail. We miss his steady, loving presence more than words can say.
A little wind ruffles the trees on the hill puckishly. Off in the distance, a red-winged blackbird is trilling its pleasure in the day, a song of praise if I ever heard one. Everything we need is here. All that is missing are cicadas and their raspy ballads, but it will not be long until they put in their annual appearance and grace our rambles for a few weeks. It is certainly hot enough for them!
No comments:
Post a Comment