Walking down to work in the morning, through the shaded streets to the center of town. Birds call down from the trees, a chattering congregation in this one, a lone whistle from that one. Different ones as you pass different houses and trees.
The sun was just over the horizon, golden light filtering through the green leaves, the fullness of the summer trees. Everything looks warmly alive and golden. Precious.
It’s different in a town than out on a farm, where there aren’t so many trees. Summer mornings are golden and sweet. The crickets and other summer bugs, the frogs in the ponds make a buzz, and the birds out in the grass call over them. It’s not so full and green as in town, where the trees are thick and hang over the road. It’s silly and I don’t know how to explain it. The height of summer has a different sweetness on the quiet morning street in a town than in the buzzing aliveness of a farm. You can love them both.