August 22
Eerily quiet.
Only a couple days earlier, there was a serene stillness that surrounded the park. Not quite an hour after sunrise, the breeze whispered a calmness, as if the wind was gently speaking in its own language, creating a pleasant repose. Its delicate breeze blew through the trees’ leaves, echoing a change in the air. The melody of the atmosphere was crisp and clear. Sounds of autumn.
But this morning was a different kind of stillness. It was eerily quiet. Even the birds were singing in hushed, muted tones, and were not nearly as congregative as normal. And were those crickets I heard? As if they are confused by the hour.
Unlike the other day when the breeze was fluent and the placidity was soothing, today there was no breeze. Everything was still, and the silence, as they say, was deafening.
The garden in the park is changing. Some plants, like the hydrangeas, are turning brown or are wilting, or the color is fading into dullness, all signs that the season is approaching its end. While I am excited to see what will bloom in the fall, for now, I would rather hold onto the summer blooms. Sadness envelops me when I reflect on how once they reach their peak and they are full and vibrant, a transformation we await for weeks, that seemingly overnight they wither.
I see that in my own full, lush garden. The zinnias are blooming all over; coreopsis keeps popping up, the calendula following with their yellows, golds and oranges; the cosmos in soft lilac and pink and white are growing tall; the white and pink hollyhocks are blooming thick bushes. Even my parsley and basil have spread and grown full that it makes me rethink next year’s placement. When we first plant seeds and seedlings in a garden and ground that is vast and bare, it is hard sometimes to picture how full the growth becomes. My oregano also took over, forcing me to prop it up so it wouldn’t cover my low growing fuchsia zinnias.
All the birds appear elated. I disturb them, though, when I step outside, and I watch as a group of goldfinches, sparrows, and Eastern bluebirds suddenly appear out of the garden, the flowers camouflaging them as they search for seeds in the ground or the pistils of the flowers. Their wings flap, sounding like a sheet when given a quick shake before being spread on the bed. They retreat to the nearest Dogwood tree. Eventually, as I sit still writing, they return and resume their activities. The goldfinch has a soft, sweet chirp, and will cling to the stem of the cosmos, content, sure of itself.
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