To search for the soul of the summer, you could travel from mountains to shore, from lake to canyon, from baseball diamond to golf course. But you could also head to the nearest meadow. That’s what I did this morning. And there amidst the buzzing bees and jumping crickets, in the bright sun and rough foliage, I found the soul of summer. The heat and the heft of it. The brightness of it, the sturdiness and the shagginess. There was Queen Anne’s lace, Joe Pye Weed and goldenrod just coming into bloom. Above all were the grasses, tall and lanky and swaying over the scene as if to fan it and cool it down.

I used to overlook meadows; I found them ordinary. I preferred cool wooded glades. But lately I’ve realized what a treasure the meadow is, how it captures summer in its openness and lack of guile.