I am in the habit of listening to the world.  Maybe it is because I am a musician, or maybe it is because I am curious by nature, and have the notion I might miss something beautiful if I squander a moment.    I have heard September’s song.  The prelude to autumn is the sound of September, after all.

The song of September drifts through the rabbit patch like an old fashioned lullaby sung in a hushed voice.  I recognized the familiar melody yesterday evening.  As long as I have called this place home, I have heard it-yet , I forget to expect it.  

The music is first conjured up in the corn fields. The drying stalks rustle in the breeze soft like a whisper.  I heard it last night, when all the rest of the world was quiet.  

The songbird community has dwindled on the rabbit patch and that shows up, this time of year.  There is very little chatter at any time of day.  The trees do not have the secrets they had in May. The mornings are quiet but,   in late night hours, the killdeer still fly, as is their habit .  If a falling star made a sound on its’ descent, it would sound like a killdeer crying out .  The owls will call out gently to one another at night and I like their way of that.  Often, the nights of September are foggy and I can only see a half million stars, now.  It is quite serene and it feels like the passing moments are sacred, when I am out on the rabbit patch,  in the very late evening.  So many times, I “save up” questions, during the day, to ask about at night.  Most often, I get caught up in the peace and the beauty-and it seems that’s why I am there.

It is Friday-an insignificant day  to me, in summer.  Friday feels different, now.  I came home today and heard the sound of a combine rumbling.  It is not unusual to hear one a good part of the night.  I have seen them in distant fields most of my life til late autumn.  Many farmers are friendly and will let children ride in the cab with them, for a while.  At night, the farmer rides alone in massive fields , especially if there is the threat of rain.  When you get up, the next morning, you see that he has opened the sky and it will make you feel a bit smaller.

One night, this week, some neighbors- young people made a small fire to sit around.  This is not a bit unusual in Farm Life or any rural community, I bet.  I heard the lilt in their voices  and could tell they were cheerful.  I smelled the wood smoke and saw it rising just under the moon. It is about impossible to be anything but content, when you sit around a fire, on a misty September night.  It will make your heart open and you are liable to cast your cares in to the ashes, like you would a pine branch.

September has a song-and the melody is pure and sweet.   There is a verse about kildeer and owls-fires and those who tend the earth.   It is first sung in the fields and it is gentle enough to make you weep-not because it is sad. . . .but because it is just so very beautiful