Summer doesn’t need my praise, doesn’t need to be acknowledged for the purple lupine now sprouting from meadows or for the creek so full of water that it’s spilling out of its banks and forming rivulets through the woods. Summer doesn’t care that the new warmth has released something from the pine trees, powerful scents that take me back to the lakes and forests of northern Wisconsin, where I first fell in love with nature.
But I need to acknowledge that summer is finally here because this is the culmination of the year. All those cold days in winter, where the skies were gray or where the winds blew hard, have been leading up to this day. All those days when I saw scarcely any wildlife at the cabin, when the creek was buried under snow, when the landscape seemed bereft of life, empty. When life was subsumed, underground, just waiting for the days to grow longer.
Now the earth has come full circle and what was empty is now full. Life is at its zenith, like the hummingbirds that soar high and then plummet back down, zinging from tree to tree in some irrational exuberance. The yard around my cabin is crawling with rabbits, chipmunks, ground squirrels, chickarees and even a fox squirrel. The ground is covered with flowers: lupines, columbines, yellow shrubby cinquefoil.
The other evening after it rained and stormed a bit, the sun came out, and I went for a walk in the last light of the summer evening. Everything seemed drenched after the rain, saturated in rich colors, mainly green but also yellow. I walked down to the creek, determined to absorb everything about this summer evening. In my neighbor’s front yard, the last of the wild iris were growing, and when I stopped to admire them, I noticed some purple flowers at the back of their driveway. In a small wet field were maybe 20 or 30 columbine, more than I’ve ever seen in one place.
In the field behind, swallows swooped and soared as they chased insects in the last light of the day. Above me, they rested on the telephone wire, while behind them clouds started to pile up in preparation for a late evening thundershower (above).
The richness of summer is upon us. The young rabbit’s fur will never look softer or richer. After one of the snowiest winters on record, the creeks will never be as full as they are now, and the columbine may never grow in such profusion again. Right now, I need all my senses. Am I ready for this rich season?
I so felt your desire to absorb all the life to take it into our souls. It sounds soooo beautiful that I just wish I could see it too!!
Posted by: sally | July 03, 2011 at 03:40 PM
Love it --- your post and Summer! What is a fox squirrel?
Posted by: shoney | July 04, 2011 at 11:22 AM
Took a few moments to scroll back through the photos accompanying these essays and enjoyed them for a second and third time. They are magnificent. The ones in this essay fit perfectly with the text, especially the vibrant green surrounding the cabin. Love the contrast to the thunderhead photo. Thanks!
Posted by: Rachel Maizes | July 04, 2011 at 12:00 PM
Ahh, what rich descriptions! You evoke the magic of summer. I've been wondering how I can cultivate a similar affection for winter, even though it is the opposite of summer's comfort. There's nothing like lush green and flowers springing wildly and birdsong filling the air to fill me with hope.
Posted by: Priscilla | July 06, 2011 at 03:21 PM
Thanks so much for all of this, Kathy. If I can't be there in person this summer, at least I can enjoy my glorious Colorado mountains vicariously through your extraordinarily deft writing and photography. Reading your posts, I often feel as though I'm walking beside you, marveling at the endless riches our world continues, in its infinite and unconditional generosity, to lay at our feet.
Posted by: Jennifer | July 09, 2011 at 05:52 AM
Shoney, fox squirrel is just a fancy name for our urban squirrels, the ones you dislike and that get in your attic.
Posted by: Kathy Kaiser | July 13, 2011 at 11:14 AM