Memory drifts and fades
By mid-August thousands of birds that flooded this valley in April to mate and raise their broods have moved on, leaving a feeling of vacancy in their wake, a feeling now punctuated by the solitary trill of a grasshopper.
They are gone and I can barely remember the splendor of their songs, or the curved lines of their flight. Memory is a crude tool. Even when exercised for optimum performance it only serves to keep a fraction of our experience within our psychic powers of recall. Limitations demand we rely on seldom examined filters to determine what’s worth saving and what should get discarded. It’s a tiny sliver of experience that memory captures, a scant whisper of the reality we traveled through, now fading with the light of another precious day.