i’m not sure i would file this under delight, but i find it interesting.

there’s a moment in the late spring when the frogs stop croaking. occasionally you’ll hear an outlier, but the symphony of peepers and croakers in the evening and early nighttime slowly dwindle to nothing after two months of chaos in the swamp.

there’s a moment in the early july when you hear the first cricket, maybe on a walk along a field with tall grass, or in the ditch while you drag your trash to the curb, but it’s singular and early in the evening.

then there’s a moment in mid- to late-july when the the birds have moved north and no longer swarm the trees, and the birds who do live locally are asleep early.

and it’s this moment when you step outside after the gloaming, and you hear no sign of life. no frogs, no crickets, no birds. it doesn’t last long and it’s nothing like the deep silence of winter, but it’s disconcerting nonetheless.

and then a few days later, the crickets start singing in the evenings into the nighttime, and in august the cicadas will start up.

but the silence of summer is the height, the shift. the sun no longer stays out past 9 p.m. the leaves are soaked in their chlorophyll. tips of sumac start turning red. motes of floating plant fuzz drift to find a spot of dirt to hibernate.

oh but don’t you dare come at me with fall vibes and pumpkin spice. it’s not sweater weather when it’s 90º in early september.