By dusk, the white blanket has begun to settle in.
From every creek bed, it pours out onto the broad, low pastures to hang, swirling inches above the ground, turning and curling, before piling up in a soft drift and spilling over the ridge into the field beyond.
Quiet and cool, it is left to soothe the spaces this August heat has seared.
In the dark, I’ve walked here with a light—the air thick with katydid and frog song, my hair absorbing the soupy air until it gathers into drops that trickle down my face. Oozing richness and heavy with the frenzy of life on a summer night.
By morning, with the sun on its heels, it quickly rushes off, leaving nothing to hint of its reveling--
except a few broken strands of beads on the finest threads.
I was surprised to find this little Spring Peeper still here, though quiet, contentedly sitting on the leaf of a milkweed, shaded by another overhead. He had found the perfect perch from which to watch this summer morning.