I finished feeding sheep and chickens this morning, walked up the hill to begin baby-chick chores and stopped. In the busyness of the day there was an odd silence. I stood facing the woods, listening intently, I realized that the Hermit Thrush was gone. Theirs is a sound that I’ve never become accustomed to: I listen for the beautiful resonance from the depth of the woods and today it has vanished. In spring the song appears as quickly as it has disappeared now in August : it graces us with bell-like calls throughout the days of the summer, especially in the twilight of evening. It struck me that I had that moment the evening before, didn’t realize it, and the gift now gone. I wish I’d had the magic foresight to know that it would be the last time I’d hear it.
We woke this morning to a cloudless sky: it looked, Paul remarked, like a desert sky. The sun was August hot. Perfect day to grab sandwiches, pile the dogs into the truck and head for water.
We threw sticks for the dogs to chase and then joined them in the cool river. I balanced on underwater rocks and felt small minnows nibble at my feet. We floated, talked and enjoyed the contrast between the warm light of the sun on our shoulders and the cold of the water. I watched the light dapple the leaves at the edge of river and studied the shadows stretching at a new angle across the pebbled beach. I stretched out on my back, my ears under the water and I could hear the hollow echo of my breathing. Paul grabbed my ankles and I pushed my arms out to the side as he pulled me around like a river tug boat. After a long swim we headed to shore and the paper bag of food that the dogs were paying a little too much attention to. Before we took our last steps we turned and stood, listening and looking, working to memorize. I’ve been here before; this place somewhere between joy and grief. In mid-August Vermont, I know that any swim could be the last of the season. The beauty that we turn our backs on one final time will never be quite the same the next time.
As we walked on the path back through the hay fields and woods, our steps were just a bit slower than they might normally be. One tends to take time in the dog days. The leaves of the trees, bright in the spring, are now their deepest shade; one final huzzah. They look so lush that I might be able to push my arm into them up to my elbows in green. However, if you look closely, not even that closely, you see a sudden slash of color, just a few leaves on one tree, but it has begun.
I choose to leave the camera at home. This is a scene for me alone. My brain photographing for some future time to sift through.
Summer will fade into fall and fall will freeze to winter. What I must remember to do every day is to show up. To take the time to see, because that vague tug of grief tells me that as sure as these moments are gifted, they will be altered and taken away.