Crickets, contrails

Isle sur La Sorgue, Provence, France.
Sept. 2012

In the back yard tonight, shady and cool, crickets kept up their diminishing chorus and above, planes, so far away, streamed silent across the blue, playing out slender threads of dissolving moisture behind.
I like fall. The light slants long and the leaves changing from green to gold and red bounce that ephemeral glow into the dusk.
Winter follows, with the sun's beams short and brief. That slanting light returns around February,  more blue than gold. You have to wait awhile for the crickets to come back, but I will settle for the sound of melting icicles on a bright March day.
I wish I wish that I could feel as renewed as the seasons every few months.

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Tonight I watched "The Shawshank Redemption" for the umpteen millionth time. The scenes toward the end, when Red travels to the cornfield in Buxton and finds the long rock wall under the spreading oak, are some of the most beautiful ever put to film. The music, the cinematography, the light and the ambient symphony of locusts and birds, all capture so perfectly what it is to treasure a shimmering, drowsy, late summer day.