The wind blows where it wills, and you can hear the sound it makes, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. – John 3:8

When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive-to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love-then make that day count. – Steve Maraboli, Behavioral Science Academic, author, speaker (1975- )

The fisherman leaves before daylight. I awaken later with the morning sun rising slowly. The air is cooler than it has been in months. Wilhelmina appears out of nowhere. The coffee is poured, stirred, and we go outside. The hummingbirds are zooming in and out among the red glass feeders. They fight and zoom more than they feed. Wilhelmina seems mesmerized; she has no chance of getting near them, so she settles herself on the porch and watches. The tiny hummingbirds flit from the oak tree limbs and back to the feeders, again and again. The wind rustles through the trees causing the leaves to shiver. The morning was so comfortable.

Wilhelmina decides to leave the porch to explore. I drink my coffee and take in all the scenery, the lake off in the distance, the blue birds, fields with grass swaying, sitting next to me is the “frog hotel.” Early in the summer I had four tree frogs. I seem to be down to one tree frog. He tips his head out, and when he sees me ducks back down into his summer home. I also haven’t seen Thomas Toad in several days. It was with Thomas I discovered when it is really, really hot the frogs will bury themselves in the dirt. It seems an odd thing to do but somehow being in the dirt is better than being in the heat index of 112. Another odd thing occurred. The frogs are attracted by the bugs that typically come to the nightlight beside the front door. This year there were hardly any bugs at all. Perhaps the wasps fed on the bugs. I don’t know. In the animal world is a bug eat bug world.

I looked around for Wilhelmina and found her jumping and batting at something. Her flanks were quivering. She headed back to the porch with something hanging from her mouth. I decided to check out what she was carrying and join her off the porch. Just as I drew near, she dropped a black cricket from her mouth to the ground. The cricket scurried into a deep crack in the ground hardened by lack of water. It was kind of sad. She doesn’t want to eat the cricket; she just wants to play with something smaller than she is. The cricket is in no mood to play in a cat’s mouth. Wilhelmina settled herself down on the flagstones looking for another critter to play with. The birds still sang, the wind blew, the hummingbirds still flit here and there, the sun rises.

Out in the field a bird dove into the grass and snatched something away, perhaps a black rickety cricket.

Shannon Bardwell is a writer living quietly in the Prairie. Email reaches her at [email protected].