Sounds
Of the little time it takes the earth to make a full rotation about its axis the period before the rays of the sun reach their way through the eastern sky to start a new day are the ones I enjoy the most.
Pre-dawn is the most peaceful time of day, a time when the creatures of the night sense the impending change and burrow back into their protective lairs. It is also when creatures of the day begin to stir in their slumber, perhaps opening one eye awaiting the light in the eastern sky.
On this particular morning the temperatures have fallen into the sixties so my ears are not hammered by the sound of air conditioners furiously pummeling the humidity out of the air. I am also not confronted with the cacophonous sounds of the night when all the creepy crawlies are at full song.
No, the sound of the morning is that of the last remaining little ones who have outlasted the rest – the last bug standing. From the marsh over yonder comes the song of a lone bullfrog. A solitary sound, bleated out into the world for all to hear, but probably intended only for one. It is a seemingly sad song that the frog sings; this is not spring, this is not the time when the sonorous sounds of its belly will attract a mate with whom he can make tadpoles. No, that season passed several moons ago and at this hour, his sound is merely the clarion call, a bell toll for the end of one and the beginning of another, a sound, should he steer clear of a hungry bird in the day, that he will emit once this day’s shadows have covered the ground to meet the darkness of the sky.
Not far from here I hear the languorous final chirp of the last cicada standing. The brave one who dares to call out her position to the increasingly attentive ears of birds soon to rise from their slumber thinking hmm, sounds like breakfast is close by. The song of the cicada is a sound of summer, a sound of short warm nights but as the darkness in which I am enfolded stretches past the hours that only a few weeks ago would have been awash in the glory of the morning light this lone voice is calling out to Mother Nature. A plea to she who controls all that surrounds us.
The voice of the cicada and the song of the lonely bullfrog fall on deaf ears as Mother Nature purposefully goes about the task of putting one season to rest, preparing for the next. No, my little ones her turned back seems to say, no, the season shall not last forever. Only I determine the time for change and it is here so ready yourselves for what lies ahead.
There is a slight breeze, passing through here in flutters which, as they pass through the trees, sound like waves on a little lake. The trees are in full leaf but they sound different as fall approaches. They heed the call of the change in seasons and have started the process in which they will bare their branches and twigs one leaf at a time until they stand bare, ready for the chill of winter the leaves are drier and sound different than they did in the spring.
Taken together, the song of the frog, the call of the cicada and the breeze rustling the leaves form a trio performing an ephemeral composition, a song to be sung once to mark the undeniable passage of time. It is a dirge, an ode to the night and a farewell to the summer.
Sitting here in Solon in what was probably a cornfield in times past, enjoying the sounds of nature I realize that this was previously heavily wooded land that has been violently altered by what we call progress. Sidewalks have replaced deer paths, buildings have been put up where raccoons sunned themselves in the sun and trees that would otherwise never have found their way here have replaced what nature planted in millennia that are now behind us.
One thing we have not managed to replace is the mountains. I wonder how the morning sounds in the mountains, in the unspoiled beauty I plan to see in coming days. I have looked on dozens of websites and found many photos of destinations as well as towns that will serve as mileposts but I know that even as beautiful as those captured images are they do not come close to replicating the feeling of standing in a valley looking up at the towering peaks around or looking down on a valley from a mountain pass.
I worry about the shortening days, being one that likes to squeeze in as much as I can in daylight I want to see it all but Mother Nature has taken a few hours out of the day. I found an incredibly beautiful area southwest of Moab Utah that I would love to see but it is only accessible on foot and it would require a couple of days hiking – a couple of days that I do not have on this trip. Hard choices, yes, but they have to be made. It looks like I will spend three days in the mountains and two in the desert so between those five days I should see quite a bit. It will be after Labor Day so I hope that the summer traffic of RV’s will have subsided enough for me to have overlooks to myself for even short periods of time.
I am tracking the weather. That is another fear I have; that one or more days I have planned in the mountains will be rained out reducing that day’s route from one of standing in awe of the peaks to one of slowly negotiating slippery corners hopelessly marking time as I reel in the miles to the next overnight stop. I really do not want to pass the day staring out a cafe window through the steam rising from a mug of coffee cupped in hands that would much rather be wrapped around the grips of my bike powering it through the hills connecting the dots on a map with smiles and memories.
Pre-dawn is the most peaceful time of day, a time when the creatures of the night sense the impending change and burrow back into their protective lairs. It is also when creatures of the day begin to stir in their slumber, perhaps opening one eye awaiting the light in the eastern sky.
On this particular morning the temperatures have fallen into the sixties so my ears are not hammered by the sound of air conditioners furiously pummeling the humidity out of the air. I am also not confronted with the cacophonous sounds of the night when all the creepy crawlies are at full song.
No, the sound of the morning is that of the last remaining little ones who have outlasted the rest – the last bug standing. From the marsh over yonder comes the song of a lone bullfrog. A solitary sound, bleated out into the world for all to hear, but probably intended only for one. It is a seemingly sad song that the frog sings; this is not spring, this is not the time when the sonorous sounds of its belly will attract a mate with whom he can make tadpoles. No, that season passed several moons ago and at this hour, his sound is merely the clarion call, a bell toll for the end of one and the beginning of another, a sound, should he steer clear of a hungry bird in the day, that he will emit once this day’s shadows have covered the ground to meet the darkness of the sky.
Not far from here I hear the languorous final chirp of the last cicada standing. The brave one who dares to call out her position to the increasingly attentive ears of birds soon to rise from their slumber thinking hmm, sounds like breakfast is close by. The song of the cicada is a sound of summer, a sound of short warm nights but as the darkness in which I am enfolded stretches past the hours that only a few weeks ago would have been awash in the glory of the morning light this lone voice is calling out to Mother Nature. A plea to she who controls all that surrounds us.
The voice of the cicada and the song of the lonely bullfrog fall on deaf ears as Mother Nature purposefully goes about the task of putting one season to rest, preparing for the next. No, my little ones her turned back seems to say, no, the season shall not last forever. Only I determine the time for change and it is here so ready yourselves for what lies ahead.
There is a slight breeze, passing through here in flutters which, as they pass through the trees, sound like waves on a little lake. The trees are in full leaf but they sound different as fall approaches. They heed the call of the change in seasons and have started the process in which they will bare their branches and twigs one leaf at a time until they stand bare, ready for the chill of winter the leaves are drier and sound different than they did in the spring.
Taken together, the song of the frog, the call of the cicada and the breeze rustling the leaves form a trio performing an ephemeral composition, a song to be sung once to mark the undeniable passage of time. It is a dirge, an ode to the night and a farewell to the summer.
Sitting here in Solon in what was probably a cornfield in times past, enjoying the sounds of nature I realize that this was previously heavily wooded land that has been violently altered by what we call progress. Sidewalks have replaced deer paths, buildings have been put up where raccoons sunned themselves in the sun and trees that would otherwise never have found their way here have replaced what nature planted in millennia that are now behind us.
One thing we have not managed to replace is the mountains. I wonder how the morning sounds in the mountains, in the unspoiled beauty I plan to see in coming days. I have looked on dozens of websites and found many photos of destinations as well as towns that will serve as mileposts but I know that even as beautiful as those captured images are they do not come close to replicating the feeling of standing in a valley looking up at the towering peaks around or looking down on a valley from a mountain pass.
I worry about the shortening days, being one that likes to squeeze in as much as I can in daylight I want to see it all but Mother Nature has taken a few hours out of the day. I found an incredibly beautiful area southwest of Moab Utah that I would love to see but it is only accessible on foot and it would require a couple of days hiking – a couple of days that I do not have on this trip. Hard choices, yes, but they have to be made. It looks like I will spend three days in the mountains and two in the desert so between those five days I should see quite a bit. It will be after Labor Day so I hope that the summer traffic of RV’s will have subsided enough for me to have overlooks to myself for even short periods of time.
I am tracking the weather. That is another fear I have; that one or more days I have planned in the mountains will be rained out reducing that day’s route from one of standing in awe of the peaks to one of slowly negotiating slippery corners hopelessly marking time as I reel in the miles to the next overnight stop. I really do not want to pass the day staring out a cafe window through the steam rising from a mug of coffee cupped in hands that would much rather be wrapped around the grips of my bike powering it through the hills connecting the dots on a map with smiles and memories.
posted by Bongo | 7:48 AM
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