Butterflies, the royal steeds for the elves of summer, are at their busiest now, great numbers flitting hither and yon, their phantom riders warning that the light of summer is fast changing. They pass in the light of the full butterfly moon.
Though the days still bear most of the summers brilliance, the shadows lie a little different from a month ago. Not only are the angles of light shifting with each passing day, the mid-August days differ from the sun-filled hours of springtimes May or June.
August reflects the position of a year, that, after passing the peak in the rollercoaster of seasons, is about to gather momentum in the yearly plunge toward cooler depths.
Days offer swallows dancing on the wing, hovering, or darting dragonflies riding on iridescent wings of transparent gauze. The raspy song of a red-winged blackbird swaying atop the plume of ripened cattails sings above its languid, bathing neighbors, the turtles and the frogs. With late summers softly sighing winds, leaves rustle in leafy song, the fiddling rasp of Julys cicada merging into the shrillness of awakening crickets.
Each butterfly that drifts below the summer skies of hazy blue, every moth that flies by the light of the stars, joins us as a silent songster of romance, a winged symbol of a sleepy Earth watching the heavens turn.