When Cicadas Sang
On The Last of Summer
Sometimes, a quiet reflective observation is the perfect reset for the incoming season:
The slow walk towards Fall is a juxtaposition of seasons. A gentle crispness in the early morning air, fading into the mocking heat of the afternoon. The sounds of cicadas, a delicate symphony, fall into a whispering forested backdrop. The remaining sounds are thoughts that won’t be quiet. Dried leaves of the tulip poplar make a soft descent to the ground in the arid, still heat of the last days of summer, smelling like the sweet, earthy decay of fallen leaves.
Unlike the brilliant leaves of fall, with their burnt umbers and golden hues. They are the vestiges of summer, the ones to go first as the tree holds its final brilliance, quickly letting go of parts that died while in full bloom. Leaves still attached to drying branches will be the ones to savor a moment in the sun, rather than competing for poetic existence with the echoes of the cicadas' fading song. They stand, knowing their time is short yet brilliant, flutter to the ground, carried by a graceful breeze below to touch the soft earth. A brief but tender relish, easing into a quiet, withering testament of sacrifice and leaving traces of existence. Beauty evaporates into a new journey to bloom. I am here.