DUNCANVILLE, TEXAS — There is a curious pleasure in summer’s powerful, enervating heat — if it is imbibed in small doses. It feels good to step outside the refrigerated boxes we favor, to let the heat press heavy against bare flesh, squeezing out moisture. In the stillness, grasshoppers and cicadas sound like an army of aliens assembling themselves from sundry springs and cogs. Birds mutter softly, as if to themselves — cardinal, chickadee, Dickcissel.

Crows and scissor-tails tend demanding offspring, and Painted Buntings sing from inconspicuous stages.

I can hear one male singing close, and then I hear an echo. The second song is shorter, less sophisticated, not as good. It comes from a young male, whom I finally glimpse in the underbrush. He is learning his song, evidence of his proud oscine heritage, and I am hearing him practice.

Summer.

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