A Summer’s Moment ~

The Cicada buzz mounts to a vibratory fury and descends swift, as I watch the mist settle upon the summer fields. Bull thistle has gone to seed among the barn; white flurries dance, softly, upon the electric aether, before the approaching storm.

I wander a lush and timeless countryside, where feathery mimosa trees blossom in their sugared fragrance, cooked by a fiery sun.

A peregrine falcon soars from a space on high; overseer of the rolling hillside.

The gentle laughing sounds carried through the breeze, as Amish women tell stories and hang their wet washing in the wind, to press and dry into shape; cotton and linen that will be sun faded and warmly fragrant, by evening.

In the old house, slow thunder rumbles the wood clapboards, as they settle and shift the dust, through rays of light that pour in from the open windows in the parlor.

The women folk make iced lemon and watermelon waters which are stirred slowly with long spoons, deep into perspiring glass jars, for the evening porch gossip where the loved ones gather to share their stories.

Blackbirds among the cornfields, swiftly take flight, trailing a dusty path towards the lavender heaven above.

Those that have secrets will find haven in Caedmon’s tobacco barn, deep into the tree line, where dusk moves like a velvet shadow over the living things.

The lace hem of my soft, cotton dress and bare feet, show a shimmer of dust from walking the back roads that wind down into Ash Rose Hollow. This is where I gather wild plants and berries to make remedies.

As I walk back to the town, I see horses languish in the field, with the last heated moments of the day. Gray bats swoop and ascend in a blur of movement in the twilight, upon unseen things in the air.

In the evening I bathe in dandelion and chamomile blossoms collected in the afternoon heat. The gurgled sound of water from the spigot echoes off of the steamed walls as I place my cotton gown on the linen cabinet, lined with discolored Christmas cards from days gone by.

The blossoms are quick to release their fragrance, rising with the steam. The scent is intoxicating and sharp, like buttery mint and sweet ripe apples. The current moves the flowers to the calm rhythm of my breathing.

The moon’s light settles lazy upon the handmade quilt my Grandmother made for me, when I was a child. The linen and satin patchwork are faded, like my memories of her. Touching the softness, of the mingled fabric that she stitched patiently with her nimble hands is the only connection that I have been left with.

Years ago, I found a sepia print of her, in the attic. Lovely and timeless, she stood in her youth. Her lithe frame, gossamer hair and winter blue eyes looked upon someone, who knew how to make her smile. A smile, that could make the thorniest man, unshackle the taut binds around his heart.

As I look out my window into the shadowy forest, I see Caedmon’s old two-story Federal house. It stands tall among the pines. A greasy oil lamp burns on a rickety table, on the upper back porch. I see his sturdy frame, silhouetted against the moonlight; pipe smoke rising on the air, glowing and taking form, like a phantom. His stare penetrates the nightfall like he is expecting something to come his way.

I reminisce the day’s moments, secreting them into memories, as my eyes settle into darkness. I listen for the distant whistle of the train, as it always sounds before the town’s clock strikes midnight.

The whistling reverberates like a ghostly lullaby carried upon the wings of Nighthawks; as our town, Ashe Rose Hollow, slumbers silently through our dreams…