Watching a local outdoors show in the depths of winter, it isn't unusual to have a summer scene come on. Sometimes I'll quit watching whatever the actual show is, and just listen to the background. Crickets. Tree frogs. Katydids. And of course cicadas.
I just got back from a vacation - a 6000 mile road trip out west. The two weeks of time spent motorcycling throughout the country was glorious. On the road every morning near daylight through some of the most amazing scenery in the country; a different town almost every night.
Outdoors sounds different in different places. The upper elevations, through mountains and high deserts are often quieter. Cooler, sometimes cold temperatures don't support the same kind of cold-blooded life; there was one morning where temperatures were near freezing while most of the Midwest was still in the pressure cooker of heat and humidity.
There is a lot to see in a seemingly parched desert, the landscape and geology is nothing short of amazing. But the invertebrates seem to live quieter, more solitary lives. I bet this changes during wet times, but I've never consciously experienced that.
The summer music has probably been more boisterous than many years, since there has been a lot of rain. The swampy part of the back yard has remained wet much of this year; the amount of life back there has been astounding.
As I let the dogs out first thing in the morning, I often pause, especially on clear mornings, and look up at the stars. I generally don't turn on the outside lights when I let the dogs out, and the stars can often be dramatic. The sound from the crickets and tree frogs is wonderful music. It accompanies the specks of light above in a way nothing else can. I often think about how fortunate I am to live in the Midwest - how fortunate I am to live in a rural area without cars buzzing around and artificial light to spoil the sky.
The neighborhood is rarely quiet when I get home from work in the afternoon. Over the din of distant lawn mowers or farm equipment, katydids are often squeaking, sounding like rusty springs. And the cicadas - oh the cicadas. Even though there aren't very many mature trees nearby, they still scream with the heat of the late summer day. Walking the dogs or riding the bike by areas with a lot of mature trees, things get even louder. What I'm always amazed by is how easy it is to tune this out - how this background noise becomes just that, background. And yet, stopping and listening, it is surprising just how deafening this often is.
Evenings wind down the singing of the day; at times there may be a period of almost complete stillness where everything collectively decides to shut up for a while. Maybe even the insects need a few minutes of quiet before the tree frogs start their nightly chorus.
On the road home from the recent road trip, I knew I was getting nearer to home by the sound (and the smell - the mowing of a roadside ditch filled with Queen Anne's lace). Above the whirring of the engine and buffeting of the wind on the motorcycle, I could hear cold-blooded creatures of all sorts creaking and buzzing while riding down a nearly empty road. I was somewhat pensive since the trip was almost over, but the noise kept me anxious to be home at the same time.
The stillness and quiet of winter is its own mystery to witness. Especially if there is snow on the ground to further muffle any sound, an eerily quiet winter morning is another phenomenon that should be experienced consciously. It is hard to compare this to the cacophony of summer.
The sounds of summer on TV in the depths of winter often seem louder than they are in real life. They aren't, it is just the wistful look forward and backward to what summer has provided and what it has to offer ... if we take the time to listen.
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