It’s early August. Even before I flip a page of the calendar, I know it. Just a week or two ago, I walked down the little lane of pine trees that leads to my horse corral to let the horses out to graze for the evening. The falling sun highlighted the tawny grass of late summer in the pasture past the trees. Its warm dried grass-straw scent drifted through the pine needles. Then, I heard it. The crickets, out in the grasses, began their autumn song. Like an orchestra hidden in the grass, I imagined them rubbing their upper and…
