Just before sunrise, I went jogging at the edge of town: I heard the loud rattle of tree crickets; chirping of field crickets; doves calling; I saw a cluster of robins scouting the pavement and yards, but there was no robin chorus, just the steady chirping of the sparrow flocks; a cardinal sang toward the edge of town, but he was the only one.
When the sun came over the tree line, a song sparrow, a red-bellied woodpecker called in the woods, and a kingfisher screeched across the pond. Near pasture fences, the dawn brought color to late yellow moth mullein and field thistle flowers.
Across the town gardens, there were purple and golden coneflowers, daisies, late-July hostas, Russian sage, butterfly bushes, phlox, rose of Sharon, a rich display of the season’s moment.
When I got home, the town crows were settling into the back trees and were talking about something important. And I found a katydid resting on the front screen door.
Looking back over my notes, I saw that a katydid had been sitting on my screen door on this date in 1993, something of little consequence, I suspect, to most people.
Still, in my private backyard history, nothing seems insignificant, and everything seems to be the truth. The katydid came to the door on time. After all, the new moon is the Katydid Moon.
This is Bill Felker with Poor Will’s Almanack. I’ll be back again next week with notes for the first week of late summer. In the meantime, listen, of course, for katydids. They sound like: Katy did!
