August

August brings a darkness that feels softly earned. The heat of the day lingers on my wooden back, but the evenings slip in earlier now, a little cooler, a little quieter. Sit with me as the dusk drops — this is the month when summer begins its slow, graceful bow.

High overhead, Cygnus stretches its long, calm shape through the deepening blue, the swan gliding across the sky in a way that makes everything feel unhurried. Close by hangs Aquila, still steady from the bright months, wings spread as if keeping watch while the season turns. These two have been companions all summer, and in August they are at their proudest.

Look south and you’ll find Sagittarius, low but unmistakable, marking the wild edge of the season — the last flare of summer’s energy before the nights begin to lengthen. And just above, flexing quietly in the warm twilight, is Hercules. His shape isn’t bold, but there’s something reassuring in the way he holds his place as the evenings deepen.

To the west lingers Bootes, tilting toward the horizon as if seeing you safely from one half of the year to the next. And rising gently in the east is Pegasus, returning for his autumn watch, his slow ascent one of August’s great promises — the sky preparing itself for sharper nights ahead.

Turn north and you’ll find Ursa Major, the Plough, circling with patient purpose, steady no matter the season.

This is August’s sky — full, warm, shifting, but still generous with its patterns. Stay a while. The nights are beginning to stretch, and there’s a sense of change in the air, but for now the heavens still glow with the ease of late summer.

Sounds and Smells

The scent of cut grass drifts across the field, mingled with clover, honeysuckle and warm earth. The day’s heat ebbs away, leaving a stillness so deep you can almost hear it settle. Dusk stretches its long arms over the meadow, softening the edges of things, and the first stars blink awake.

The night creatures take over quietly. A hedgehog rustles through dry leaves, following well-worn paths between the grasses. The last of the glow-worms still gleam faintly — small green sparks in the dark, signalling the tail-end of summer. Above them, long-eared bats twist and turn through the air, listening for moths drawn to the faint scent of evening primrose.

From the hedge comes the familiar too-wit, too-woo of the tawny owls, calling across their territories, answered faintly from further down the valley. Their voices mark the turning season better than any calendar — the tone slower now, softer, as the nights lengthen again.

If you stand still, you’ll catch the whirr of wings — an Elephant Hawk-moth, still feeding on honeysuckle’s late blossoms; or a cockchafer blundering past, as if summer refuses to quieten down completely. The air holds that heavy sweetness that belongs only to August, touched with dew and the promise of rest.

I listen to it all: the hum of insects, the sigh of a cooling field, the soft rhythm of a world winding itself toward autumn. August is not an ending — just the pause between one kind of life and the next.