Yesterday was adrift in dragonflies, bumbles and butterflies, but it was too hot to countenance doing much except curling up in the shade of the big trees in the garden and watching our winged kin buzzing and fluttering about. By mid morning, the temperature and humidity were sky high, and being outside was like wandering in a Brazilian rainforest. The evening was a trifle cooler but (sigh) only by a few degrees. At nightfall, I pottered around outside with my tea for an hour or two and watched little brown bats spiraling over the garden - their graceful looping circles always give me pleasure.
There is pause for thought this morning on noting that the cherry tree in our hedgerow has an abundance of drupes this time around - according to native lore, it is a sure sign that a long hard winter is coming our way. The little brick house across the street is vacant and forlorn, its veranda sagging and windows sad, but the globe thistles in its riotous, abandoned garden are beautiful in their bristling blue armor, and they are draped in bumbles that glisten like jewels in the early morning light.
How many years have I watched my neighbor's thistles bloom and wild cherries in the village bear fruit? On mornings like this, it seems as though I have been here and watching the seasons unfold forever. I am, by no means, hastening toward the next turning of the wheel, but I think longingly of autumn and its glorious cooler days, about crimson leaves in the wind and burnished mahogany acorns coming to earth.