Gone is the sound of the cicadas as they pierce the air with lusty songs and fill the stillness with high-pitched voices that call listeners to a game of hide-and-go seek, going dead-silent when footsteps near. Where have you gone, O sounds of summer?
Gone is the sound of little boys on bicycles, racing down the street, leaving behind them a dust storm of laughter and excessive energy, their legs pumping life onto flat pedals until the bicycle wheels go around like the blades of a windmill in a cyclone. Where have you gone, O sounds of summer?
Gone is the sound of lazy dogs snoring under shady trees, their bodies stretched like hairy rubber bands as they seek a moment’s sleep before being roused from their mid-day siesta for the chase with a car or a cat or a child or maybe a curve ball. Where have you gone, O sounds of summer?
Gone is the sound of the wind on sun-inspired stalks of squash plants, yellow submarines floating beneath and exposed by the breeze as it dances in and out of the labyrinth of leaves, dislodging a hungry wasp or two from their dinner at this fancy diner. Where have you gone, O sounds of summer?
Gone is the sound of children giggling on the branches of peach trees as their little paws become claw machines out to snag the juicy fruit, while the less brave or the less tall sit below the bottom branches, making satisfied sounds as they suck the juice from low-hanging fruit and off of their syrupy fingers now stuck together with this sweet glue. Where have you gone, O sounds of summer?
Gone is the sound of birds singing at the first light of the day, primed to preach their holy scriptures to sleepy-headed snorers who would prefer to be heathens rather than listen to the chatter of these black-feathered clerics on tree limbs, and still they sing because it is a calling not unlike the Baptist at the Jordan. Where have you gone, O sounds of summer?
Gone is the sound of a woman or two and maybe a man here and there in the kitchen over steaming kettles as blackberries and purple plums are peeled and plucked, squashed and strained, boiled and blasted into beautiful jams and jellies ready for butter and toast and a cookie filling if the recipe is a right one. Where have you gone, O sounds of summer?
Gone is the sound of a swimming pool party with boys without shirts and girls with teeny suits splashing and sliding as boisterous laughter escapes from muscular lungs and hungry glances sneak a peek from dreamy eyes, teenage dolphins darting in and out of the water and displaying dexterity denied to all but them. Where have you gone, O sounds of summer?
Gone is the sound of babies crying on the blanket placed on picnic lawns, as dogs bark for a burned burger, and moms swat at mosquitoes on the hunt for a juicy cocktail, all the while the menfolk boasting of scoreboards or beers drank, and older children bouncing around the lawn like human pogo sticks. Where have you gone, O sounds of summer?
Gone is the sound of bare feet with dirty toes racing through the door after a game of catch or after catching a frog or two in a muddy hole, the feet making a quick and quirky melody as they slip and slide across sleek surfaces, or soil and stain shampooed rugs, leaving behind a trail of evidence that requires no sleuth to solve the mystery of who and when. Where have you gone, O sounds of summer?
Gone is the sound of afternoon showers dripping and dropping from sullen skies as the sunshine takes a bathroom break and disappears behind bosom-like clouds and show-off streaks of lightning, with the rains soaking into the soft soil like a body going to bed for the night, and the run-off going down gutters and gulleys like a drunk downing the dark brew as the last call is shouted from the bar. Where have you gone, O sounds of summer?
Gone is the sound of small boys bickering over baseballs or tween girls whispering over new beaus, bravado and braggadocio much the same as mac and cheese, the boys with their arms flying left and right and the girls with their hands hiding their up and down lips, the sounds of camaraderie and conspiracy and complicity and conflict like a toss salad of emotions, their faces telling the same stories that their mouths do, only with a clearer and crisper vocabulary. Where have you gone, O sounds of summer?
Gone is the sound of waterhole fish poling or mud slinging, the sound of water skiing at high noon or skinny dipping at sunset, the water silent and soundless until the first splash or the first sinking, upsetting fish at school or stirring mud on the bottom, but without remorse for the disturbance will end soon enough and the waters can return to their self-imposed coma until awakened again another sunny day. Where have you gone, O sounds of summer?
Gone is the sound of cooled watermelons being split and slurped, seeds spat or swallowed, and the sounds of cones of ice-cream being licked or dripped, the sound of cooler lids lifted to expose six packs, or the sound of sizzling steaks on the outdoor grill, smoke ascending like ancient sacrifices on the altar, with impatient children sounding complaints made by their empty stomachs and with moms hurrying the dads as they hold a long-handled spatula in one hand and a long neck brewski in the next. Where have you gone, O sounds of summer?
Gone is the sound of dodgy dogs and conniving cats and rascally raccoons and jumpy grasshoppers and cackling crickets and stealing squirrels and snappy snakes and happy hummingbirds, along with the sound of light-filled days and late-hour nights and afternoon naps, as well as aimless walks and gentle weekends and stacks of laundry that can wait and sleepovers that can’t wait, summer camp sing-alongs and open air stadiums and starry nights and not-so-serious reading and dog day laziness and life finally lived to the full. Where have you gone, O sounds of summer? Where?
— Jeremy Myers
Sunday Brunch 