Grass recently mowed, ripening fruit and flowers, fledglings newly developed feathers, and distant lightening combine to create an aroma that only a July night can know.

July is the perfect month to sit outside at dusk and watch the newly fledged bats (do bats fledge?) flutter in their hurried quest for sustenance.

Two common bats in Massachusetts are the Big Brown bat and the Little Brown bat. I can’t be sure which type I am seeing when I watch their nightly foray but I’m going to guess Big Brown bat. Then again, they could be Little Brown bats. No bother. The good news is this year there are many more bats than in summers past.

Did you know that a single bat can eat up to 1,200 mosquito-sized insects every hour, and each bat usually eats 6,000 to 8,000 insects each night!

Bats are good for Mother Earth.

Since I have the walking stability of a drunk elderly seaman, the weeds have had their way with my gardens. There is a school of thought that leaving weeds in place helps retain moisture in the soil. Hmmmm, I’m not so sure that’s true. Weeds need water, as do non-weed plants so a collection of thirsty weeds remove water from the soil. They also use nutrients. I think the gardeners who came up with the moisture conservation hypothesis about weeds are just too lazy to weed their gardens. However, since I’m not able to do much weeding this year, I guess I’ll jump on the ‘Weeds are Good’ bandwagon.

According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, a weed is defined as “a plant that is not valued where it is growing.” So I guess, one woman’s weed is another woman’s flower.

You tell me – weeds or flowers?

Each morning, when the sun is just waking, I take my crutch, mug of coffee, and Harlee and Bailey, and shuffle out to side porch to welcome the new day. I’m greeted by a symphony. Parents singing their songs and fledglings, following their parents around, begging for food. I’m of the mind that if a young bird can fly it should feed itself.

But then again, what do I know. Mother Nature has been doing her thing a lot longer than me.

I’m grateful for the birds that migrate and find their way back to my little corner of the Concord River. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for all my birds…well, maybe not the House Sparrows…okay, fine, them too. But what of the migrating birds, those neotropical migrants? The tiny Ruby-throated hummingbirds? Baltimore Orioles? Herons and Grosbeaks? They travel thousands of miles to places I’ll never see. Drink from exotic flowers. Eat from a menu my local birds will never taste. Secret places that only the travelers know.

In the wise words of Shakespeare: “Summer’s lease hath all too short a date.” Ain’t that the truth. The days go by quickly in July. Every day I try to capture moments too precious to waste. The flash of a goldfinch sharing his meal with a bumblebee.

The heron drying his/her wings on the shore of my river.

The surprise of a white Mourning Dove .

Colors bursting in my untended gardens.

And of course my jewels of the garden.

On a cold winter’s eve I draw these memories forward and recall the beauty of July.

Oh, I must not forget playful pups.

There are still many days ahead but time steals them with swift hands. ‘Stay with me,’ I whisper to the bats, ‘do not go, ‘ as I watch the stars wink from the inky July sky.

Blessed be :}

Mi manchi, mia amata immortale.