July 14, 2008

•   …a thunderstorm came through late Saturday night, scouring the atmosphere of last week’s haze and humidity.

                                                              

  Sunday morning reveals the gift of a clear sky, decorated only with a few wispy gossamer clouds, and cooler air. This day stands as an island in the middle of July; as we approached it, we sailed through rainy, stormy, wet weather, and when we get past it we’ll again paddle against the typical oppressive heat of midsummer. But just for a while, we’ll rest on this little oasis of an island, basking in its gifts.

                                   

  (Above, lush maidenhair fern grows out of a bluff with cold spring water below)

  Early morning is still, with not even a breeze to stir the canopy of leaves on the trees or the long-stemmed grasses in the meadow. In a remote and rugged place on the farm, one could stand and shout all day long and no one would hear. There is no sign of human existence, other than the ramshackle old house that sinks down, inch by inch, into the arms of the earth. An overwhelming silence pervades…

  …until one stops to listen. With no radio or machinery or human voice to interfere, what seems, at first, like perfect silence soon turns into a cacophony of nature’s busyness.

  Close by, the incessant buzzing of insects soon becomes apparent. Bees, wasps, all manner of bugs are hard at work, doing what insects do to survive. If one could hear with butterfly ears, one would know a raucous work day is in progress. Right at one’s feet, young yellow grasshoppers are feasting on a smorgasbord of foliage, chomping happily and hopping from stem to stem for the choicest morsels. Crickets chirping, cicadas fiddling in the nearby trees, a golden honeybee staking out his territory in a spread of large clover blossoms–imagine the energy that is being expended by all these tiny creatures!

  Farther afield, crows are noisily scolding each other in a small grove of walnut trees. An Indian-head (pileated) woodpecker drums a rhythmic beat on the side of a dead oak tree. Warblers sing and call to each other, as they dart through the thickets. And behind all this racket, there is the soft ooh-wah, hoo-hoo-hooing of doves, sweetly providing a calming backdrop for all the twitter and chatter.

  High overhead, a couple of buzzards are inscribing large circles in the sky as they search for breakfast. Rarely flapping their long, fringed wings, they are masters of conservation, floating effortlessly on air that seems to barely move. It is hypnotic to lean back and watch them drift, higher and higher, until they become but specks in the atmosphere.

  Up on the ridge, mama cows lie in the tall grass in the shade of the trees, chewing and switching their tails against the flies. At the intrusion of humans, some of them bawl at their youngsters to come closer to home, but no one seems terribly excited. They are a pretty relaxed bunch.

  The predominant color is green. With abundant rain this season, every tree, shrub and patch of grass is richly verdant and full.

                             

  Walnut trees that were barren last year are now pregnant, their branches weighted down with fall’s harvest.

                                                              Wild plums will soon ripen in the thicket.

                              

  Grapevines will hang heavy with fruit from the lush blossoming season.

                                     

  Closer inspection of the meadow reveals a riot of the warm colors of summer’s flowers.

                   

  The paler, softer pastels of spring have given way to jewel tones: dark purples, deep yellows and vivid oranges. Butterflies tinted with variations of the same hues flit from flower to flower, drinking deeply, undisturbed by the footfalls of an ardent admirer.

                                                          

  Down the slope, at the foot of the hill, a clear, clean stream splashes over the rocks, providing a little more music for the soul.

                                  

  Normally, by this time of year the flow would be reduced to a trickle, but rain has kept it running steadily this year.

                                                     Pollywogs (tadpoles),

                                      

             shiners (minnows–above, they’re sunning and have their shiny side up)

                                  

                      crawdads (crayfish–isn’t his camouflage good?),

                                                                                     

  pond skaters (water striders–the dark is his shadow…he is tiny and sits on top of the water),

                                                                    

                    and darning needles (dragon flies–one is sitting on the leaf)

  unwittingly reveal the healthy ecosystem that exists in this place as they go about their business of simply living.

  It is a morning to savor, this brief respite from summer’s usual fare. As I lift up my eyes unto these beloved Ozark hills, I know from whence comes this oasis of beauty and life. These are moments to savor.

  • 6:05 pm
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