We sit on the front porch on a beautiful morning, a clear, sunny sky. The temperature is warm, but comfortable. There’s no humidity and a slight breeze, just light enough to send the light, lovely scent of the butterfly bush blooms our way.
There are, surprisingly for a weekend, few people stirring, so there is hardly any car noise and, blessedly, no lawn mowers. Blessedly because that means we can hear the sounds of nature.
Sparrows sing. Mourning birds dolefully coo. As a catbird flits past the porch, we hear its feathers move. Cicadas chirp in the distance, their vibrating songs rising to a peak and then falling to a rest, punctuated by a robin’s song, which is bracketed by another cicada chorus coming from a different tree. A pair of crows passes overhead, raucously speaking to one another until their noisy conversation fades in the distance.
The breeze tickles the chimes on the porch, teasing a slight reverberation that, though metallic, harmonizes with the natural sounds.
The dominant sound is the buzzing of the bees cruising the butterfly bush just inches from us. The smaller honeybees give off a high-pitched sound, balanced by the lower, more constant drone of the bumblebees.
One sound eludes me, though. I wish to be able to hear the wings of the butterfly. They glide from behind the house into our midst. They flit from flower to flower. They pulsate, opening and closing their wings as they feed.
I suspect that they make the most delicate sound, the slight sound made by the gracefully arching arms of a ballerina.
Words and pictures © 2009 AtHome Pilgrim.
All Rights Reserved.