The Crickets of 2023

Not related to my post - just wanted you to see this beautiful hosta flower

Summer ended last Thursday, where I live in the Southern Tier of New York State.  Let's record the date:  July 27.

How did I know?

I heard the song that heralds the end of summer on Thursday evening.  I thought it was my imagination.

I always think it's my imagination, but it's not.  At first, the song is fleeting.  Then it's constant.

This song triggers what has become one of my annual posts. 

I've heard the first cricket of 2023.

On Monday, I definitely heard it, several times.  I heard the buzzing.  I heard the sound of the second half of summer.

In a way, I dread the first cricket song, because it means winter is on its way.  The rest of summer, into fall, will be filled with their song until a hard frost ends the concert until next July.

I've been tracking when I've heard the first crickets since I started to blog in 2009.  Here are most of my previous posts: some of these dates below don't correspond with the post date but the sighting date.  I  don't think I did a post in 2013.

July 29, 2009
July 22, 2010
July 30, 2011 
then, there were two dates in 2012, perhaps due to an early spring
May 21, 2012
July 25, 2012
August 3, 2014
July 28, 2015 
July 24, 2016 
July 31, 2018 

July 8, 2019

July 23, 2020

July 26, 2021

July 22, 2022

Why track the first cricket date?  Many of us continue to take comfort watching nature, be it birds, flying insects, or sunrises and sunsets.  With change all around us, nature is a constant.  It's as dependable as people, apparently, are not.

 

There is also the human desire to keep records.

As I blogged in 2019:

"My blog, with the Garden Bloggers Bloom Day meme I participate in each 15th of the month, has become a kind of garden journal.  I'm no good at diaries or journals, but blogging is something I do keep up with. For now, anyway."

So, what does this pattern of dates mean?  Not much, perhaps. 

But I like paying some attention to the natural world.  I've seen the juvenile birds in our yard grow into adulthood. The late summer wildflowers are on their way.  I've already seen goldenrod.

My day lilies are finishing up.  Our small garlic patch has been harvested.  The onions are nearly ready.

We all are called by Nature in some way.  The trees know when to drop their leaves and sprout new leaves in spring.  The migrating birds of our area know (although climate change is messing up these signals, sadly, especially in spring) when to leave for their true homes.  I never realized many of our birds are visitors.  They breed here and then return to their southern homes in the fall.

I watch the hummingbird whose territory I live in and see it fattening up for fall migration.  She (and it's always a she) will be leaving in just about a month.

For now, I hear the call of the crickets.  It may make me sad to know summer is fleeting, but it's all the more reason to live each day in the moment.