© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2013
The remaining traces, the gentle wisps of the cool night air, were receding from the soft noise of the golden August morning sun, from the calming song of a blue August morning sky, from the low pitch of the swish and sway of August leaves in the capricious flirting breeze. All of nature lazily meditative to the ohm of the katydids. Their collective breath diminishing the city and its brass abrasion of sound into the realm of nothingness.
After picking a few peaches, I sat amid this unfolding symphony of calm, my body and soul intoning and breathing in the sights, smells, and sounds cloaking me in peaceful solitude.
My body sat under an umbrella of sunshine, a percussion of acorns, from the loving arms of my oak tree above, occasionally pelting the canopy above me. As my body sat, my thoughts took my heart in hand and walked the lane of memories to the farm in August, smelling the flowers, looking on in amazement at the beauty of the humble buckeyes carpeting the ground, the lusciousness of the strange mix of sleepy August sun and August breeze, the buzzing of katydids, the back drop of the tapestry around me.
The quiet, yet intense murmur, the herald of change, whispers loudly. The season is ending-the fruit is ripe, the seed pods are bursting summer’s sweetness betrayed by a trace of the musty decay to come rising on the vapors of the earthly vessel sun-baked in August daze.. Now is the time to harvest. The autumn, the fall is coming.
The katydid song, a song, a deep murmur in your being that builds. It’s dizzying din can drive you; it can consume you. Where is your season? What is your harvest? Is your autumn, as is this autumn, around the corner? The katydid song tells me so.
I sat meditating in the moment of the katydid. The moment of now and the moment of my childhood. It took me back. And I want to go back, back to the peace of that time. But I can’t. There are peaches on the ground but still some peaches on the tree, the harvest is around me.
Katydid in August