by Janice Godlove

Created on: July 31, 2008

Summer Solstice

The black of night has steadily faded, thinning to dim grays and lavenders. Faint chirps and twitters of birds become bold songs demanding the anticipated dawn. The sun is the hero of this day, the summer solstice, the start of the season of growth.

The first fingers of light reach over the mountains and strike the spires of the trees. In the pale morning the treetops glow-like a line of candles lit by a single match. Slowly the light burns down the length of each tree, consuming any shadows left by the night, until the trees stand, illuminated, wholly engulfed in a shining embrace.

The shimmering, liquid crescent of the sun appears, dispelling any lingering mist, drenching the earth with color. There are still shadows, but they are long and sharp and grow richer by the moment, as the sun surmounts the east.

On this day only, out of all the days of the year, the sun throws a few daring beams through the lace of north-facing windows to pierce the cool, prim dusk and scatter dust motes. But the conquest is brief. The sun gathers its stray beams for a concentrated display of force upon the land, which surrenders to the warmth and light without resistance.

Too soon, however, warmth and light unite into a concentrated blast of heat and glare. People and animals shrink from the smoldering kiss of Sol. Tender plants and vines wilt before the ruler of the day. Few can revel in the untempered caress of this fierce and ancient lover.

Among them are the trees, which bask in the sun's unblinking gaze, drawing life from pure energy. Hard-shelled, brightly-colored beetles, dragonflies and hummingbirds dart and glitter like jewels on the bosom of the naked earth, shimmering with heat.

The birds have hidden themselvesall except the mockingbird. He perches in the open and sings defiance at the scorching scene beneath him and contempt at those lesser creatures who are unable to bear it. Only when the great orb falls to the west does he return to the trees, spent but triumphant.

A young tree throws a cautious shadow behind its back. The shadow lengthens and slowly sweeps across the grass, marking the few remaining hours of the sun's reign. The eye of that great monarch grows heavy-lidded. The heat retreats; the light turns, smudged and tired, to give the land a parting glance.

In a magnificent blood-letting, the west drains the sun of its vigor; the sun, in the throes of death, quivers and pulses before sinking into oblivion, leaving the horizon stained with its fading memory. The shadows, which had cowered and crouched under the trees at noon, now stretch themselves out full-length and merge into one, reclaiming their rule of the night.

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