Last day of August. The evening air throbs with the music of crickets and other insects. Slowly the sun sinks behind the trees, but heat lingers. The air is very still as if it, like me, is too hot for movement. As I refill the bird feeders (the birds, at least, were active today, draining the thistle sock of every last little seed), a kingfisher rattles not far off, above the river. The river flows through a shaded tunnel of trees, and I imagine how deliriously wonderful it must feel for the bird to dive into that cool water.

Joy is everywhere:
in kingfisher's noisy dive,
in twilight's soft hum.