The mourning doves still call at dawn, but their voices seem a little less insistent, more subdued with summer's awakening. Night hawks and whip-poor-wills, busy as ever, are sweeping the evening skies, while the voice of the owl from deep within the shadows still calls. The mockingbird's nightly serenades might be a little louder on these summer evenings, but the frantic competition for mates and space has slowed for the serious business of growth and seed making.

July is looking toward the future. A flotilla of young mallards paddles close behind the hen, probing marsh and pond. Silent dragonflies hover and dart about on gossamer wings. We hear the soft murmuring of swallows gracefully sweeping the heavens in insect-harvesting acrobatics. Mosquitoes hum.

Cicadas, known as the harvest fly, begin their fiddling this month. They are by far the loudest of noise-making bugs, and Southern folklore regards them as forecasters, "When the cicada sings, the following day will be hot."

The songsters provide July's tune. Fresh buttered corn on the cob, ice cold watermelon, picnics in the backyard are the lyrics, warnings that summers are short.

Correction: Last Sunday's editorial in this space, about mimosa trees, referred to the "summer equinox." Of course it is the solstice, not the equinox, that occurred on June 20.

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