July is a backyard safari, dirt-caked knees, the heart-racing thrill of the hunt.

Bug box? Check. Dip net? Check. Stealth and determination? Check and check.

Among a riot of milkweed, blazing star and feathery thistle, the siblings are crouched in the meadow, waiting for movement.

“There,” points one of the children.

“Where?” chimes the other.

“Follow me!”

As they slink through the rustling grass, playful as lion cubs, life bursts in all directions. Monarchs and swallowtails stir from their summer reverie. Dog-day cicadas go silent. A geyser of goldfinches blast into the great blue yonder.

“He’s right there!” the child whispers once again, inching toward a swaying blade of grass.

At once, the black-winged grasshopper catapults itself across the meadow, popping and snapping in a boisterous arc of flight. The children scurry after.

On and on this goes. Hour by hour. Day by day. Grasshopper by grasshopper.

Or, on too-hot days, tadpole by tadpole. 

“Race you to the creek!” chime the siblings.

Shoes are cast off with reckless abandon. Bare feet squish into the cool, wet earth. Laughter crescendos.

The whir of tiny wings evokes an audible gasp.

“Hummingbird!” says the younger one, scanning the creekbank until a flash of emerald green catches their eye.

As hummingbird drinks from cardinal flower after vibrant red cardinal flower, the children, too, imbibe summer’s timeless magic.

Finally, awakened from their fluttering trance, the children bolt upright.

“Race you to the wild blackberries!” they dare one another.

Such is the thrill of wild, ageless summer.