Empty, Tipsy Birdhouse

It is August and the baby birds have flown, leaving the little birdhouse tossed and askew, empty save for straw and feathers, twigs, and memories. Back in June when the light filtered in the windows at 4:30, it was the birds as much as the light that announced the beginning of the day. Calling to each other, declaring their territories, recounting the to-do list for the hours ahead.

And then the solstice came and the spring ended and summer officially began. The little birds took it all in stride, mating for the season, feeding their insatiable young, teaching them how to soar high and fend for themselves, and scaring off the jays and the starlings with raucous spurts of bird profanity. Big words from little birds.

It is August now, and the baby birds have flown. The rose of sharon is in full bloom, opening gradually to the afternoon and turning inward by dusk. The crickets are rubbing their arms together in the dusty twilights, and the light falters by eight. August, it seems to me, is more complicated than July…that month of glare and sweat, of hot sun and brazen light, of few hiding places.

I like August. The baseball games are winding down, the beaches are sprinkled with a few umbrellas, the nights are a bit cooler and longer. September, with its crisp clear air is yet to come. August can still get doggy and limp, and the tiny spiders spin their corner webs in the sultry darkness. Dreams are restless and tossed, peopled with ancient lovers and lost cities. At noon, on the little brick patio, I eat garden cucumbers and the first of the explosive tomatoes and long for the days when August went on and on like a story I never wanted to end.

So I look at the stars behind the cedars, listen to the jingling crickets and the ribbet-ribbet-ribbet of the tree frogs, smell the sweet corn and the grill smoke. The baby birds have flown. I journey miles in my daydreams; the nights take care of themselves.