Dog days indeed!
This month I’m caught in the web of a golden spider, listening as the world here in Michigan holds its breath. August is a special time—there’s a stillness while we hang between seasons, wandering under vast blue skies, falling into deep sleep to the sound of whispering rain. Persimmons, apples and black walnuts bend branches in my backyard. Every living thing is stretching their limits, absorbing as much silent wonder as they can. Gerard Manly Hopkins says it much better than I can…
So does Charles Burchfield ,visionary American painter and deep watcher of nature. I came across a passage from his diaries dated August 14, 1935, that gives voice to the heat-swelling beauty and grief that seems always to possess me in August.
Are you listening to crickets or cicadas near an open door, damp night breezes wafting in?
Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967), The Insect Chorus, Opaque and transparent watercolor with ink, graphite and crayon on off-white paper, 1917.