The cry of the cicada
Gives us no sign
That presently it will die.
— Matsuo Basho
Summer slipped away quickly this year. It always does, really, but especially when the weather is uncooperative for large swaths of outdoor living time. So it goes.
The cicadas signal the dog dats of summer but also its end. We know the signs of autumn by now, and it begins with that uniquely mournful song that they make from the trees. Their time is now, the cry, and so too is ours.
A monk sips morning tea,
it’s quiet,
the chrysanthemum’s flowering.
— Matsuo Bashō
The mornings are chilly again, and unlike Bashō’s poem, full of the sounds of squirrels gathering food and bickering about who gets what. The water is warmer than the air, for the sun is reluctant to stick around so long nowadays. The seasons are flipping, just as surely as the hickory nuts are falling.
I think about the fall cleanup and shudder. Is it the chill in the air or the thought of forced labor to come? We dream of autumn for all its beauty, for the crisp air and the scent of fallen leaves. We forget about the work. We pay penance for the pleasure.
I promised myself I’d drink more tea this summer. I planned to use more of the mint spilling out of its terra cotta pot in an attempt to displace the basil in the neighboring pot. Yet the drink of choice is most often coffee. Does coffee nullify my monk inclinations, or does the ritual matter more? Ask the flowers—for they’ve quietly observed all summer.
For all the changes, some things remain the same.
