A little slice of orange creamsicle sky is the last remnant of the day before denim blue evening takes sway. I don’t know when the crickets started chirping. Suddenly, I realize that I’ve been hearing them without noticing. How happy it makes me when I finally do notice. It occurs to me that I rarely, maybe never, hear crickets in this place. I love them so. That sound is summer, and youth, and life. It is golden hills and the smell of sweet alyssum.
I remember the transitions well. The hum of the bees filled the air morning and noon. At twilight, they let the crickets take the stage. As the night deepened, coyotes wailed eerily in the hills. These were the songs of summer where I grew up among the oleanders and the olive trees. The Ortega Mountains loomed over the valley. Horse Thief Canyon led into the distant, unsuburbanized past.
Now, I never hear coyotes in this placid neighborhood, though my husband reports seeing one on his predawn runs. Only the owls and things that scamper softly through the brush tickle my ears with their sonorous comings and goings. Likewise, I never heard owls there in that dusty desert valley when I was young. Owls were reserved for this landscape, this age.
Maybe cricket song is for the young, and owl chant is for the elders. The grandiloquent symphony of youth gives way to the simple susurrations of maturity. You’ll know where you are in life by which wild music you can perceive.
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Hi dear Peyton
That's an interesting thought.... I listen more and more to the sounds of the natural world. I think I always have, but my attention is now more acute, and I'm probably noticing things I didn't notice before.
I loved the reference to the Ortega Mountains. I had the joy of driving through the Santa Fe area a few years ago, on a meandering road trip from Austin to LA.
Best Wishes - Dave :)
Peyton. This was a powerful perspective written reflection. This stopped me dead in my tracks. It read like a poem.
Leo Tolstoy says something about being stopped in his tracks, while reading poems, and asking "Now why did the poet do that?" This happens all the time. It's part of the code-breaking. When a word or phrase appears that's arresting, it does two things: it challenges my perceptions of seeing/hearing/feeling, and it moves me into new territory. By this I mean an altered state of awareness that's akin to an extended daydream, where all my senses conspire to provide fertile and syntactically engaging words or lines. It happens rarely, but when I'm there I tend to make the most of it, for days sometimes.
I do believe that you are a powerful thinker and that you have you mad skills. And because of this I wish for some sort of correspondence with you. I am going to kick it off by subscibring in the hopes you do the same. This will keep me accountable and motivated to leave comments such as this on your subsequent and previous posts. I imagine our bonded will power with these exercises will bear much fruit. Peyton; do keep me on your long distance radar. in the joy of eternal collaboration from shore.
Sincerely, Cc