We could hear the red tailed hawk calling out from the top of the sycamore tree, but never spotted him. I thought I caught a glimpse of his red-brown-white chest, but wasn't sure if it was him or dead leaves clustered on the branch. I love hearing him call out, such a lonely, yet imperious, call.
The cicadas were singing their hearts out, hiding as they do deep in the underbrush and bushes. I love their song, but the kids never did so they re-named the insects "Momma Bugs" when they were small in honor of me. Fireflies and Momma Bugs are my favorite summer time creepy crawlies. They make me think back to eating watermelon on the back porch after suppers and spitting the seeds as far as I could, trying to out spit Dad and Stephen. Sometimes I could, most times I couldn't. And then I'd watch the lightning bugs flicker their lanterns on and off accompanied by the peaceful drone of cicadas. If I could capture the sound of summer in a jar, it would be that sound.
The trail was alive with sound this morning. The incessant hammering of a Downy Woodpecker jackhammering away on the dead tree trunk next to the creek, the multi-lingual mockingbirds welcoming the morning light, the cheerful (yet bossy) chirps of the robins as they strutted about alongside the trail, the "whit-cheer! whit-cheer!" of the cardinals as they flew from bush to bush, always just a step ahead of me and the beautiful song of the little Carolina Wren.
I listend to all the songs in the woods and my mind was filled with quiet.