There are subtle, silent changes taking place now, with the summer solstice more than a month behind us. These changes bring on a feeling of urgency.

July began with a full load (14 hours and 24 minutes) of daylight, sunup to sundown. Although scarcely noticeable to the casual observer, we have already lost almost one half hour of daylight. Birds are restless, their nesting season completed. Martins, among the first to sense the shortening days, are gathering along the power lines, preparing for migration to the Amazon. Usually they move south by the end of July, and don't return to Carolina until March.

While spring and fall are the logical times that birds choose for migration, man seems to have a different sense of urgency. We pick mid-summer for our escape from hot and crowded cities -- exchanging the tumult of urban living for, say, the hustle and bustle of crowded beaches. Others dream of rippling streams, red sunsets reflecting from tranquil lakes, a campfire and the plaintive calling of a barred owl beneath the stars.

Why does mankind find such pleasure in hearing the soft rumble of distant surf, the whisper of a dying sea-breeze rustling the myrtle leaves? Why on summer nights do we find such delight in seeing a sphinx or hummingbird moth flitting on silent wings, or hear the drumming of woodpecker or the song of the wood-thrush?

They lure us just as the trumpet creeper vines, with bell-shaped orange flowers reflecting the fire of mid-summer, invite hungry hummingbirds to pause long enough to sip their sweetness.

In its own sweet time, each season dons its own colors. The shift from spring's brilliant greens to summer gold has begun.

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