Angel's back this week with a seasonal kind of thing -
So, it's September, early September in that "the weather still thinks it's summer, but you can feel the fall trying to break through" way. It's still humid as hell this evening as I write. Though Hell is more of a dry heat, according to Shax. I wouldn't know.
But the trees are starting to do fall things, like drop acorns and shed pine needles. The cicadas have settled down to occasional trills now, heading toward the end of their adult cycles. The crickets still sing in mass Hallelujah chorus and the peeper frogs will get their cue in about an hour now. There's just something in the air - a waiting, a holding of collective breath. Soon, the night sounds say, soon the heat will dissipate and a chill will come with sunset. Soon the squirrels will become less playful, engaged in the serious work of fattening up for the cold. Winter is coming. Mr. Martin was watching squirrels when he thought of that. (Probably not, but I do.)
The video probably doesn't catch the night sounds for you well enough, everything soft and anticipatory after the raucous summer concerts. Kitty in the window is optional, but always preferable:
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