Intermission

Early rain ends, leaving a still and steamy August morning at the Bernard Church Woods. Once in a while, a weak breeze blows the tree canopy, creating a quick shower of leftover raindrops. This short hike took an effort to begin – I must be starting to absorb the lethargy that this in-between season induces. There are few bird sounds. No animals, not even a deerfly. The trail, little frequented, has encroaching underbrush. I can only hope the ticks are sleepy too. One big old “wolf tree” maple is a reminder that this was once open land.

It’ll be a month before true signs of Fall are apparent. Meanwhile, fern fronds are turning brown at their ends. Dry leaves tumble, still green. A spring that began with red-winged blackbirds and then mayflies, trilliums and the passerine migration, bled into a rainy summer of fireflies, frog croaks, the secret blooms of orchids, and finally the midnight sparks of the Perseids. That’s all over. Spent. Except for apples, growth is done, and death not begun.

Most of the birds have slipped away unnoticed, and bees are not yet desperate enough to be patio pests. Those restless winds of September are still imaginary. The great swing of the seasons seems paused, our tilt away from the sun imperceptible. Much of nature is in a holding pattern. A cannon shot startles me – it’s a hickory nut falling: bang..bang……bang. My melancholy shattered, alertness revives.

The sun is coming on strong now and I’m sweating even at this slow pace I’ve chosen. There’s a listless cicada up there somewhere, and the mosquitoes are unfortunately attentive. In fact, it’s insects that make the most of this month. Crickets and katydids are the creatures with the most energy, now full grown and chirping for mates. Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. At night the reed section plays louder and louder.

I traverse a little knoll; evidence of human activity is all over the place here. Wonder if there was a structure once upon a time? Upon reaching the gas line/meadow the path disappears in a dozen crisscrossing deer trails. Yikes. Randomly choosing one, I try to step on the tall weeds, tamping them down instead of letting my lower legs brush against them, but it’s a lost cause. On the other side, I stop to check my legs for deer ticks. Looks ok, but I’m glad my pants are tucked into socks and sprayed with DEET.

Tis a long slow slide, this mid-August to early September. As each day enjoys a restful interlude at 4 PM or so, each year does so now, nature not in a hurry to move forward. With many more years behind me than ahead, I’m in agreement. Time is what we try to escape from: as children yearning to be older, as oldsters wishing youth’s return. But this damp stillness somehow doesn’t cultivate serenity. Time is unresolved; a pause held a beat longer than comfortable, anticipating a major chord. I can be melancholy, lament the passing of summer, or be itchy to move on. I can be uneasy, reluctant, hear the bell tolling for winter. And I can spend these thoughts like they’re not worth much. Won’t make a bit of difference; I might as well keep walking as long as I can.

George Jacobi