don't turn anything on

I heard that whispered on my way up from the garden this evening. A perfect hazy evening with glimpses of afternoon sun breaking through a streak of gray days.

We had finally got rain, from Fay, and it broke the trend leaning toward what was about to be

the driest august on record since 1929.

The build up to the rain was wonderful, a few days of balmy ocean breezes and darkly overcast clouds, swaying the trees gently and making the last summer greens darker and smelling of the beach hundreds of miles away. The rain was even more wonderful, filling back up the shrinking pond and dried up creeks and causing the frogs to go crazy.

The weather phenomena is past now, and it feels like a standard humid august evening, the crickets loud and constant, but not so loud that I didn't hear the whisper...don't turn anything on.

 

 

I assumed that meant, don't turn on the market report on public radio, or the convention on public television, or some evening blues on pandora, but go into the house quietly with the lights off and listen to the crickets and the night sounds. Smell the corn tassle fading and the kernels filling from the rain, smell the rising sour of the tomatoes that rotted from lack of water and are now plopping to the late summer ground. F

eel the humidity cool towards fall and start planning for firewood and hay while sitting in the dark.