Summer Concert

The sun is one minute from slipping behind the horizon, as the summer day slowly relinquishes its heat to twilight. I sit in my homemade porch swing listening for the loon who sings its sad solo, coo-tra-loo, coo-tra-loo , somewhere on the water behind the house. When I close my eyes, the myriad sounds of the evening become a summer concert.

Sometimes a neighbor mows his grass this cooler time of day. I can hear the low vibrato of the lawn mower humming its way around the yard, kicking up a warm breeze that smells watermelon sweet. A fat gray dove coo- coos softly to himself from the lowest branch of the old dogwood tree and all around me the bug busy air drones with buzzing wings like tiny violins. Mosquitoes, gnats and a zillion other flying things blend together in a natural discord. Purple Martins soar above the house waiting for the right moment to swoop down soundlessly dipping into the thick bug chorus. The dark shadow birds quickly gobble up what they want and with a cry of victory, climb back to their circled flight. A trio of geese honk by, close to the water's surface - like a squadron flying stealth below radar.

The sun, as it exits, leaves behind a path of gold coins on the water and as the last pale mauve light fades away, the cicada crescendo. With a deafening tympany they announce the end of the day and ... the evening show begins.

From water's edge and the woods, tree frogs begin to attempt to drown out the cicada. The world is filled with the clicking, croaking ancient songs of summer. Each creature passing on its same remembered tunes from the beginning of time to this moment. There is a certain continuity in this; a reassurance.

Fluttery moths skitter and dance against the window screens, as if desperately trying to flee the darkness that now embraces the lake and the woods. Lights from the evening sailors dot the water. And now the magic show of twinkling fireflies can begin. It starts with one, then two and suddenly there's too many to count. They wink and flirt high in the spiky pine trees and low in the shadows of the flower garden. Signaling to each other with their secret messages, their glimmer decorates the yard like Christmas. When I was a child, I would catch them and put them in a jar where they would shine out like tiny captured lanterns. But age has made me more reverent and respectful of the inalienable right to live. So, I enjoy them blinking and sparkling in the dark; tiny rhinestones studding the deep green curtain of the night.

A soft, warm breeze tickles and teases the leaves in the top of the tallest oak trees. Their laughter mimicking applause.
                                                                
The air is thick with the sugary scent of honeysuckle and jasmine and smells like something good to eat. Beneath us the crickets hiding near the house call out urgently to each other with raspy hollow chirps.

In the dark, all the sounds and smells seem to swell together to a grand finale and then settle slowly subside into a gentle lullaby. My eyelids heavy, I lean back, feeling as though I could stay here forever, drifting away on a summer evening dream.

Tomorrow I will note in my gratitude journal, " Thank you Lord for summer concerts."