Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, August 16, 1914

There are few sounds, other than the wind in the tree-tops. One or two katydids. From a dis­tance comes the song of a cicada. After all it is this song - this crescendo, which is like the wind, now soft & then loud that is truly expressive of this season—of the metallic glint on heat opaqued trees; of the warm breath from cooking plant life; of the quivering white edges of shrubby trees; of the sultry sun, beating down from the opaque cloud-besmeared sky; of long whitened shadows gliding down a hot close-cropped pastury hill; of that hot vague blue haze which converts trees to blue agate and as stated above, of the ever dying + reviving wind, from whom he must have learned his crescendo...
Charles E. Burchfield, August 16, 1914