Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

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