When the "crunchy bugs" start their chatter. Yeah, that's what I always called them until I finally discovered they're cicadas (they probably are crunchy, if one were so inclined as to check it out). Not a fan of the bugs or that sound, but hey--if I were a female cicada, I might be swooning as some young, studly cicada sang his crunchy lovesong. The other Summer bug call--which seems to heighten the hotter the weather--sounds like heavy duty electrical wires humming. There will be silence, then all at once a humming that builds to a crescendo and abruptly plummets off into silence, until it begins again. Does anyone know what those insects are?
You also know it's Summer when at 6:30 in the morning, the yard is shrouded in mist, the kind of foggy mist that happens when the moisture has nowhere to go, so it embraces the trees, drapes itself around the tomatoes, hugs the coneflowers and petunias so their colors are glowing runway lights for the birds. The catbirds, wrens and assorted other neighborhood birds use the mist as cover for a game of Marco-Polo, calling to each other, ducking in and out of the ornamental quince (except for the dashing cardinal who perched on a green arbor post in all his scarlet glory). Amid the love songs and bluejay calls, I listen to the droplets sliding off the gutters and table umbrella and admire their simple, transformational beauty as they ring tomato cages and the insinuate themselves into the green tulle protecting the grapes from Japanese beetles.You know it's going to be a hot day, but for just a little while, before the sun tops the hill behind the house and melts the gossamer web, it's still cool....the coffee steam clings to the moisture in the air and its scent lingers, a welcome and comforting stranger mingling with the spice of petunias and tang of mint.