Our 1890 house is surrounded by trees. Large old trees. When they are not falling on our house (which they have done), I love them. Similar trees line the sidewalks and streets along our walking routes. From spring till autumn, these leafy giants teem with life and a beautiful chorus drifts down from their branches. Birds, squirrels, cicadas, katydids, crickets and tree frogs are all players in this tree-top symphony.
During our morning walk, it’s the birds that take center stage. Chirping, trilling, warbling and cooing, their chorus is joyous and uplifting. Occasionally I will hear an overachieving cricket randomly chirping along with the birds, long after the rest of his kin have retired.
As the sun and the temperatures start to rise, the cicadas move to the front seats of this orchestra. The rhythmic rise and fall of their droning, for me is the soundtrack of summer. As the sun begins to set, the katydids and crickets join in. Pretty soon the cicadas grow quiet, and tree frogs join in with the katydids and crickets, accompanied by the occasional hoot of an owl.
This symphony is white noise, drifting in and out of conscientious. If you focus on it, it becomes dominant, but before you know it, your mind drifts to other things and it disappears.
Mimsy walks beside me, more interested in smells that are beyond my awareness than the nighttime chorus I am enjoying. A telephone pole gets special attention. It is the Facebook page of the dog world in our neighborhood. She stops to sniff the posts … who is in heat, who is marking their territory, who just wants to say, “Hey, I was here.” She contributes to the canine social media and we move on.
Our last walk of the day usually happens between 10:00 and 11:00 pm. These are my favorites. The traffic along Elizabeth Avenue has slowed down. The franticness of the day has given way to the twilight hours of night. We are no longer measuring time with a stopwatch, an hourglass will do just fine. The last grains of the day fall through the glass, piling on the bottom of the instrument in a loose pyramid, waiting to be flipped over to begin another cycle.
In the distance a hound bays, Mimsy searches for the sound, then looks up at me, trying to judge my reaction and expectations. “It’s okay,” I reassure her, “Lets get busy.”
Biological functions completed, I give a gentle tug of the leash along with my words, “Okay, let’s go home,” she switches directions 180° as we make our way back.
I try to remember and store away every sensory experience during these walks. I will need to make a withdrawal from that bank during the dead of winter when the leaves are gone and the only sound coming from the trees is the rustling of bare limbs.
The warm glow of the porch light illuminates the clapboards near the front door and welcomes us home. Some strategically placed lamps in the living and family rooms spill their light through the front windows where it pools on the floorboards of the porch.
I depress the latch, enter, then close the door behind us. The tree-top chorus is instantly muffled. We are home. Tomorrow will begin a new cycle and a new symphony will cue up. The creator has said, “It is good,” and it is a grand design.
The downside of having your house surrounded by large (old) trees.