The dry flute of winter increased from timid drip-drip to the welcome rivulet of spring’s quickening quartet, spring waters roughening to thunder, the voluble thunder, of summer. A summer stuffed beyond the pinched anemone prinks of spring, the quacks and pranks of compact ducks merely returning with downy chicks to the muddied mill pond. Summer starts with lime-dust on the leaves, a cauterized neck in the garden, rabbits, hunched as rabbis, attacking a rutabaga patch, nibbling naughtily the taut squash blossoms with impolitic tooth. Fulvid summer now in row on row of mowing is moving, loudened gusts assert, oboes blow by to join the tempered strings of violins sizzling busily as sheeted rain, the rage of fallen dots obliterating the composer’s roughened lines limping beyond the old swirled treble clef. Now, even at night, the mood of drums is more than the mind resists, the mind alive in a realm of overwhelm, beauty besetting its dripping boat, the thunder-sheet shaken, bronze, the strong trees, oak, hazel, hawthorn, maple, large, at last laugh awake in an ecstasy of daytime fry and nighttime bake that pulls them, note by note, up from the roots until all the wood-doves coo in a shade as deep as Mahler’s moods. And still the sounds of summer pour on, roar on, irritant transients of piccolos settled down to balmy roundelays blissful as beer, calm cellos, the fat notes of gubbinal horns returned from their silver soaring to soft-tinted rest, a-nuzzle in the underbrush, being to be, and be in the domestic dimness of satisfaction fulfilled–or, if not fulfilled, held anyhow in the mercy of afternoon light after a nap, alarmed only by august disgorgings of gorgeous gongs, the winter ruts deepened by summer’s goings-on, the long byways mossy now, rife, rife every step of the way, with life.