Here on a summer night in the grass and lilac smell
Drunk on the crickets and the starry sky,
Oh what fine stories we could tell
With this moonlight to tell them by.

A summer night, and you, and paradise,
So lovely and so filled with grace,
Above your head, the universe has hung its lights,
And I reach out my hand and touch your face.

I sit outside today, at the picnic table on our side porch. I was called out here; in late summer, the cicadas and insects of the plains are so loud that I can hear them from inside our old farmhouse.

I sit and hear the call and response of buzzing cicadas, the chirp of crickets during their intermission. The wind rustles off and on through the treetops. And now our old cat has heard me, and she comes over, spreading tan cat hair across my screen. But I don’t mind; I hear her purr as she comes over to relax nearby.

Aside from the gentle clack of my keyboard as I type, I hear no sounds of humans. Occasionally I hear the distant drone of a small piston airplane, and sometimes the faint horn of a train, 6 miles away.

As I look up, I see grass, the harvested wheat field, the trees, and our gravel driveway. Our road is on the other side of a hill. I see no evidence of it from here, but I know it’s there. Maybe 2 or 3 vehicles will pass on a day like today; if they’re tall delivery trucks, I’ll see their roof glide silently down the road, and know the road is there. The nearest paved road is several miles away, so not much comes out here.

I reflect of those times years ago, when this was grandpa’s house, and the family would gather on Easter. Grandpa hid not just Easter eggs, but Easter bags all over the yard. This yard. Here’s the tree that had a nice V-shaped spot to hide things in; there’s the other hiding spot.

I reflect on the wildlife. This afternoon, it’s the insects that I hear. On a foggy, cool, damp morning, the birds will be singing from all the trees, the fog enveloping me with unseen musical joy. On a quiet evening, the crickets chirp and the coyotes howl in the distance.

Now the old cat has found my lap. She sits there purring, tail swishing. 12 years ago when she was a kitten, our daughter hadn’t yet been born. She is old and limps, and is blind in one eye, but beloved by all. Perfectly content with life, she stretches and relaxes.

I have visited many wonderful cities in this world. I’ve seen Aida at the Metropolitan Opera, taken trains all over Europe, wandered the streets of San Francisco and Brussels and Lindos, visited the Christmas markets in the lightly-snowy evenings in Regensburg, felt the rumble of the Underground beneath me in London. But rarely do the city people come here.

Oh, some of them think they’ve visited the country. But no, my friends, no; if you don’t venture beyond the blacktop roads, you’ve not experienced it yet. You’ve not gone to a restaurant “in town”, recognized by several old friends. You’ve not stopped by the mechanic — the third generation of that family fixing cars that belong to yours — who more often than not tells you that you don’t need to fix that something just yet. You’ve not sat outside, in this land where regular people each live in their own quiet Central Park. You’ve not seen the sunset, with is majestic reds and oranges and purples and blues and grays, stretching across the giant iMax dome of the troposphere, suspended above the hills and trees to the west. You’ve not visited the grocery store, with your car unlocked and keys in the ignition, unconcerned about vehicle theft. You’ve not struggled with words when someone asks “what city are you from” and you lack the vocabulary to help them understand what it means when you say “none”.

Out there in the land of paved roads and bright lights, the problems of the world churn. The problems near and far: a physical and mental health challenges with people we know, global problems with politics and climate.

But here, this lazy summer afternoon, I forget about the land of the paved roads and bright lights. As it should be; they’ve forgotten the land of the buzzing cicadas and muddy roads.

I believe in impulse, in all that is green,
In the foolish vision that comes out true.
I believe that all that is essential is unseen,
And for this lifetime, I believe in you.

All of the lovers and the love they made:
Nothing that was between them was a mistake.
All that we did for love’s sake,
Was not wasted and will never fade.

All who have loved will be forever young
And walk in grandeur on a summer night
Along the avenue.

They live in every song that is sung,
In every painting of pure light,
In every pas de deux.

O love that shines from every star,
Love reflected in the silver moon;
It is not here, but it is not far.
Not yet, but it will be here soon.

No two days are alike. But this day comes whenever I pause to let it.

May you find the buzzing cicadas and muddy roads near you, wherever you may be.

Poetry from “A Summer Night” by Garrison Keillor