A few cicadas are singing in the garden as I write this, but there are not quite as many minstrels as there were a week ago, and the realization is bittersweet. Sometimes, Beau and I encounter living cicadas on our morning walks, and we move them carefully off sidewalks and roads to the safety of nearby grassy verges.
When we come across the mortal husks of expired cicadas, we gather them up gently and lay them to rest in a quiet corner of the garden under an antique rose. It is something we do every year, saying "thank you" as we tuck the precious little beings into the good dark earth with an old teaspoon. Hail the travelers.
August brings fogs and splendid morning dews, and a little after sunrise, the garden is lavishly strewn with dewdrops. From a distance, blooms twinkle like constellations in the early light, and they make a fine leitmotif for these late summer days.
This morning, several antique roses are tenanted by canny goldenrod spiders who are hiding among the petals and ready to pounce on unwary beetles, wasps and flies. The little dears can have all the Japanese beetles they want.
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