Day 7 - freebie
Frogs chirruping, crickets singing, a screen door slams shut, and fireflies silently, lazily bedeck the fields, winking their way home. Summer nights in Virginia, cooling as the dark deepens to a velvety softness, is a time for poets, lovers, and dreamers.
Summer days are what give the summer night its glory - the sun beats the red clay to a hard-baked earthen sheen, storing up warmth to counter the cool breath of evening. Summer sun ripens the apples, cherries, and blackberries that turn to sweet homemade wine. The hard work of tending, watering, and gathering turns to dancing, music, and laughter as the light steals away and bonfires and strings of old bulbs burn brightly over the joy of youth, the rest from labor. Old pickups crunch their way along gravel roads as sweethearts meet to steal kisses in the twilight. The world sighs with deep satisfaction and an air of earned indolence wafts over hills, brooks, and fields.
The nights that we have waited for all through the cold winter and the rain-soaked spring are finally here and yet, we know from years of experience that all too soon, they will fly into the fields of memory, leaving only a hint of having ever existed at all. A young girl's journal, an old country song, the faint taste of a lover's kiss remembered are all that will linger when summer nights fade with the leaves. And so we glory in the fragility, the fleetingness of it all. These deep, sweet, rich moments in time indelibly imprint themselves in our minds, on our hearts, shaping our perspective on perfection. Perhaps true happiness comes only in glimpses: in frogs, blackberry wine, and swimming holes.
The whirring fan harmonizes with the deep bass of the bullfrogs and the staccato soprano crickets as dreams cover eyelids with fanciful landscapes and a new day's adventure. The body, worn from heat and hiking trails, swimming and farm sweat, reposes at peace with the hope of another joyous night tomorrow, the day after, the weekend. Summer is a time of hopes fulfilled, fruit trees heavy with their bountiful burdens, the work of the spring and the sorrows of winter laid to rest in the joy of the laborer and the early harvest. Gardens flourish; plants, animals, and people grow, and the earth is round-bellied with promise. And night pulls the curtain on this green world, reveling in the accomplishment of all that has been purposed, promising labors of joy, the sweet taste of love, and a blessed forgetfulness that only deep summer can bring.
Frogs chirruping, crickets singing, a screen door slams shut, and fireflies silently, lazily bedeck the fields, winking their way home. Summer nights in Virginia, cooling as the dark deepens to a velvety softness, is a time for poets, lovers, and dreamers.
Summer days are what give the summer night its glory - the sun beats the red clay to a hard-baked earthen sheen, storing up warmth to counter the cool breath of evening. Summer sun ripens the apples, cherries, and blackberries that turn to sweet homemade wine. The hard work of tending, watering, and gathering turns to dancing, music, and laughter as the light steals away and bonfires and strings of old bulbs burn brightly over the joy of youth, the rest from labor. Old pickups crunch their way along gravel roads as sweethearts meet to steal kisses in the twilight. The world sighs with deep satisfaction and an air of earned indolence wafts over hills, brooks, and fields.
The nights that we have waited for all through the cold winter and the rain-soaked spring are finally here and yet, we know from years of experience that all too soon, they will fly into the fields of memory, leaving only a hint of having ever existed at all. A young girl's journal, an old country song, the faint taste of a lover's kiss remembered are all that will linger when summer nights fade with the leaves. And so we glory in the fragility, the fleetingness of it all. These deep, sweet, rich moments in time indelibly imprint themselves in our minds, on our hearts, shaping our perspective on perfection. Perhaps true happiness comes only in glimpses: in frogs, blackberry wine, and swimming holes.
The whirring fan harmonizes with the deep bass of the bullfrogs and the staccato soprano crickets as dreams cover eyelids with fanciful landscapes and a new day's adventure. The body, worn from heat and hiking trails, swimming and farm sweat, reposes at peace with the hope of another joyous night tomorrow, the day after, the weekend. Summer is a time of hopes fulfilled, fruit trees heavy with their bountiful burdens, the work of the spring and the sorrows of winter laid to rest in the joy of the laborer and the early harvest. Gardens flourish; plants, animals, and people grow, and the earth is round-bellied with promise. And night pulls the curtain on this green world, reveling in the accomplishment of all that has been purposed, promising labors of joy, the sweet taste of love, and a blessed forgetfulness that only deep summer can bring.
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