YOU CAN BUY MY HOUSE, BUT NOT MY MEMORIES
I’m fortunate to have lived in a log home surrounded by stately pines, and oak trees whose limbs have been shaped by the wind, some leaning precariously but hanging on by the roots. Vehicle traffic is replaced with seasonal wildlife and a variety of birds.
Each time of the day brings its own agenda, but I feel the magic in the early evening. I sit on my porch swing, close my eyes, and listen to the sounds of the night. I might hear the soothing, deep sound of an owl establishing his territory or maybe calling for a mate.
There are folks who find the repetitive call of the whip-poor-will annoying; I love their determination and never give up attitude. The call of the whip-poor-will is one of my earliest memories when visiting my grandparent’s farm.
Not to be outdone by the birds, are the hundreds of frogs in early spring who put on a symphony with a rich variety of mating calls.
If you want Christmas in July, look for the twinkling light of the firefly aka lightning bug.
O little firefly
Comforting me with your light
So small, so much light.
Just as parents tuck their little ones in at night, and themselves, birds do likewise. At first there is conversational chatter. I imagine they are saying it has been a good day; worms, bugs and birdseed have been plentiful, and no near misses. The chatter decreases in intensity and then you here gentle tweets, almost a lullaby, as they settle for the night, and then silence until the early morning wake-up call. I’m sure the phoebe and the robin are the earliest risers.
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