It passes in the blink of an eye. Suddenly, the fields of wheat are but golden stubble and the swallows are gathering on the telephone wires. Second cut of hay is down and the corn towers over me, tassels waving in the sultry breeze. The harvest is in full swing. The hummingbirds are less at the feeder -so bountiful is the wild nectar; the finches only stop by for a moment, preferring to forage in the hedges.
The raven children visit occasionally. They were here, briefly, this morning. Sometimes one of them perches on the silo, standing on the platform that holds the nest where they were born. They stayed longer, these three, much to our delight. Every evening they would roost in the dead birch across the driveway. We could hear them gossip and mutter through the bedroom window as they settled in for the night. Not so different from us, really. It's always bittersweet when they leave and their visits are cause for quiet joy.
It's been a summer of plentiful rain. The garden is wild and fit to bursting with life. Bloom and blossom, bee and butterfly. It isn't short on mosquitoes, either - nor blackflies, in the spring - but there are nightly light shows of fireflies and the sound of bats is a happy thing, after a few seasons of scarcity. There's a pack of coyotes living close by - their songs haunt our nights and early mornings, particularly as they've made off with several of our hens. It's been a bad summer for predation - we've lost seven of our girls, to raccoon and coyote. It's hardened and softened me in equal measure.
In amongst the varied turmoil of everyday life, I turn more and more to the land - for solace, for guidance, for wisdom. It whispers to my soul of gentleness and intuition, of communion over direction.
Gently, ever so gently, I am drawn into the rhythm of it all.