A symphony of lawnmowers, cicadas, and mockingbirds dominates the early mornings of early June. Although the buzzing bugs have no shame in waking you, they get shy and mute themselves when you near, almost as if to apologize. The doves coo in a supporting role that resembles a much more coy echo of the train horn that streaked across the dry air the night before — noise that breaks thought through an open window. The moth larvae invade the front porch around the same time, early June. The birds have to eat, and fresh meat is apparently favored over the dead earthworms that have died and dried on the outside tile.
Quails run the rocky hills with their families, weaving between cacti and creosote, keeping distant from any incoming human. Hummingbirds take wing, skimming the earth for the familiar red feeders that house their syrup, and things start turning green. Dragonflies cast impossibly quick shadows that dance with the other flying fauna — June bugs and honeybees — on invisible avenues in the sky. Every year, the wasps seem to spawn from nowhere, always mature, ready to sting, committed to building their nests in dark and cool corners. Witnessing the rhythmic and reliable fall of mesquite seeds is one way to pass the time. Running on these pods sounds similar to the crackling of Christmas fires a half-year ahead. The massive and now rare butterflies are so effortless in their grace, that they encourage one to stop and wonder.
This is the season of hot car seats and cold showers, of gleaming pools and crowded cookouts, of short sleeves or no sleeves, of loud music and windows down, of tinted lenses and blockbusters. The kids are still out of school and they populate the parks on bikes when they step away from their screens and wifi. Bathing suits hang from hooks inside, drooping in a sad way although they mark happier times. Tanning is done while listening to a playlist that has recently coalesced, which will always remind you of this time and its colors, the way it smelled: cut grass, damp soil, sunscreen, watermelon. Your leg and arm hairs have turned gold to match the dunes. Paperbacks rest on the bed as if they are napping, cracked open, both covers facing the tireless ceiling fan, awaiting your return.
