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! The katydid is more earthy —it is expressive of more lowly things —of rank smartweed growths; of scrawny dried grasses of all kinds; of withered plants; and of rustling leaves.

Charles E. Burchfield, August 16, 1914