Whispers

In my corner of the world the scorching days of July have been refined into golden August. Cicadas sing out nonstop all day; more noisily as the dusk falls earlier with each passing day. Their cousins, the fireflies are gone for the year, no longer enchanting us with their dusky glow.  Children wiggle their feet into stiff new shoes and strap on backpacks as they return to school, rendering my neighborhood silent. Stranger’s gardens tempt me with their red ripe tomatoes tumbling off vines and cucumbers unseen that have grown to startling lengths.

I eagerly await the hallmark of the season when the leaves of the mighty oaks, elms, and other deciduous varieties transform into spectacular displays of colors against sapphire skies. My eyes will delight in the medley of colors while my ears will be closed to the wind’s whispered warnings that these days will be gone in the blink of an eye and replaced with winter by Iowa.