The dawn declares itself this morning with a pink glow that receded into a warm filtering sunlight that made the heavy dew glistens on the leaves  as it inched up into the sky… The light growing and glowing over land that has learned to endure the languor of August. The sun, ever faithful, lifts itself above the tree line—a beacon that promises light, but also delivers the unrelenting heat that has become a constant companion here in the Deep South. Today,  the sun’s ascent is both welcome and daunting, its warmth a balm for those who cherish the season, its intensity a warning for those who long for relief. But after so many gray mornings it was a welcome sight…

August is a paradox, a time of abundance and exhaustion, beauty and burden. The cicadas sing in the humid air, their chorus a kind of relentless poetry echoing through the lush vegetation that surges in the landscape. The heat seems to shimmer, distorting the distance and making the old oaks appear to sway, though their roots grip the soil with patient determination. The days are long, the air thick and heavy, and the nights full of the noise that comes from the creatures that come alive in the darkness.

It is the tropics that are brewing, it is their busy time. There are clouds tumbling over the Atlantic in a steady path to come ever closer to the land. The radar maps glow with swirling colors, reminders of nature’s power and unpredictability. In kitchens and on porches, in stores and the workplace, people exchange stories of storms past, of hurricanes that roared and retreated, leaving behind memories etched deep in the bones of communities. There is apprehension in the air, a sense that the natural order is holding its breath, waiting for the next surge or lull.

Yet, alongside this tension, there is a gentle acknowledgment that the days are growing shorter. The sun lingers a little less each evening, shadows stretch more eagerly across the yard, and the night arrives with a hint of reprieve. The heat persists, yes, but there is comfort in knowing that the season’s grip is loosening, that soon the world will tip into something quieter, cooler, and more forgiving.

My dreams are filled with fall: the tang of wood smoke, the crispness of air that bites but does not sting, the tapestry of leaves in rust and gold and amber. I imagine evenings that begin with gentle breezes and end beneath quilts, the laughter of friends gathered around backyard fires, the taste of apples and cinnamon. Autumn is hope—a promise that the fever of summer will break, that the earth will exhale and soften, that we will find ourselves reborn in the cool hush.

But here we are. Here, in the throbbing heat of August, in the Deep South, where the present demands attention and respect. The wildflowers bloom defiantly along the ditches, their colors refusing to fade. The hum of air conditioners struggling against the afternoon blaze, the air hangs thick, the humidity a constant companion in this stage of summer.

To live in the present is to find wonder in what is, not only in what might be. The sunlight filtering through Spanish moss, the taste of sweet tea sweating in its glass, the sudden and glorious spectacle of a thunderstorm rolling in from the west—these are the gifts of August, the treasures tucked quietly into daily life. Even as longing for autumn grows, so too does the apprehension of the storms that linger in the oceans and roll off the coast of Africa.

On the porch, I watched as dawn broke, pink and glowing the colors deepening before fading into a gold light. The world is still hot, still heavy, but for a moment, all is quiet. I breathe deeply, aware of the sweat on my brow and the hope in my heart.

In the Deep South, seasons do not change all at once; they bleed into one another, slowly, the way stories are passed down from generation to generation. Summer’s heat gives way to autumn’s cool not with a single gust, but with a series of subtle transformations. The tropics may be brewing, and the calendar may inch toward September, but August remains—proud, stubborn, radiant. In these days, there is a lesson: to endure is to grow, to hope is to dream, but to live is to recognize the beauty in the now. The warmth, the sweat, the light, the storms, they are all part of the story of life here in the Deep South.

So, I gather my dreams and tuck them gently beside me, not as an escape, but as an accompaniment to the present. The heat and swelter of the thick air will give way tonight to the music of the night, the chorus of crickets and frogs will seep into my mind and I will close my eyes, grateful for August, for the Deep South, for the longing and the living, all braided together in this tapestry of time.

But the Deep South has taught me not only to hope, but to hold on—to savor the days as they come, even as they challenge and exhaust. The sun that rose today will set tonight, and in the hours between, there is a world full of living, of noticing, of appreciation. So, as August unfolds its story, I listen. I watch. I wait. I dream, but I do not run away from the present. For in this heat, in this light, in this moment, there is life—bold, brilliant, and unrepeatable. The tropics may be brewing, the days may be slipping away, but here we are, rooted in the now, blooming despite the heat, dreaming of cool nights to come. And that, perhaps, is its own kind of grace