the royal month of august

One of my favorite things to look at online is Henry David Thoreau's blog. He has become something of a saint to me, iconic picture up on my wall and everything. Keep in mind that I come from a subversively polytheistic culture, so when I say that I mean it in quite a different way than most perhaps would.

So today he writes:

As my eye rested on the blossom of the meadow-sweet in a hedge, I heard the note of an autumnal cricket, and was penetrated with the sense of autumn. Was it sound? or was it form? or was it scent? or was it flavor? It is now the royal month of August. When I hear this sound, I am dry as the rye which is everywhere cut and housed, though I am drunk with the season’s wine.

I love the onset of late summer and one of its emblems for me has been the cricket. The word "sweltering" comes to mind when I hear it, though I don't really mean that it's just hot. There's a resignation that borders on oppression that I find oddly delicious, and I glad that Thoreau, too, wonders at the flavor of it. I feel less alone in my bizarre conclusions.