When I think of nature’s quiet my thoughts invariably turn to winter when a freshly fallen foot or so of snow dampens the sounds of whatever’s about. Summer in contrast is the season of splashing geese, singsonging birds, even the inevitable traffic as windows remain open day after lovely day.

Yet, if seasons are sometimes used to portray the four stages of life, the few months of summer can also be viewed in a similar panorama of growth. Spring is — and remains — the birth with the excitement (and noise) of confused demanding young things all about. July and August bring flying lessons and the additional excitement of maturing geese as well as the steady (or does it merely seem that way?) motor of the mowers.

Now, however, while it is still summer, a new stillness has descended across the scene. The geese have returned en masse to visit but are generally content to sleep in the shade of the giant cherry trees. No breezes disturb their leaves while the lake echoes its stillness in its mirror. The cat has definitely discovered the pleasures of the hunt but now prefers to retreat to the coolness of the concrete in the garage. Only the timid retriever stirs regularly — out, in, out, and in again — but I have hopes for him as well.

It is one of those blessedly perfect summer days (the ones we picture so clearly and yet in actuality enjoy so seldom). The sky is truly the color of the robin’s egg with only an occasional marshmallow puff of white to add variety to its limitless expanse. The thermometer promises not to climb beyond 79 and then skedaddles into the fifties at night to ensure another well-rested day tomorrow.

Enough of a breeze (my weather station rates it at 6.7 coming from the northwest) kicks up now to create small ripples which run the long way down the lake. There’s no sign of fish jumping (nor do I expect it) and even the birds who love to skim the surface of the water as they search for bugs have settled in for a nap. I suspect were I to garden right now I’d find my area quite mosquito-free as well. One snapping turtle floats aimlessly, his exclamation point of identity as still as the floating weeds.

In once more, the retriever is now content to stretch out, both sets of feet together, to slumber on the cool stone floor. Just a single violin from the radio and the steady ticktocking of the grandfather clock disturb the silence within eye — or ear — shot.

I am so happy I am not a nap person. How much better to have this quiet time for reflection and appreciation.

And, yes, and peace.

Not that I expect it to last.

A sip of scotch — indeed time to put away thoughts of work and relax for a spell while the chicken salad cools in the refrigerator. The mosquitoes have gone off in search of more tender hides and I am grateful the deck rewards me as I meant it to when the house was first designed.

Hummingbirds, their buzzing bigger than their beaks, dart around my head, eliciting cries of appreciation. One or two latecomers munch at the feeder and a cardinal signals from the tree.

Blessed to have been able to spend much of the day outdoors, I am grateful now for time to reflect: what’s growing; what isn’t. Why three plantings have produced only one bean plant and might I consider a screen of beans next year where the morning glories cover this season? It would be a regrettable break with tradition, I think, but beans have lovely flowers as well (when they grow) and dinner at hand sounds appetizing. I’ll mull it over.

How long has that noise been there? I grow aware of it only as I realize I would have to raise my voice if I wanted to be heard. The geese were there; I knew that. In fact, I get joy from having them close. I particularly enjoy their soft murmurings when I can eavesdrop on their private conversations.

This thought is not private and no eavesdropping is necessary. It is very insistent and loud — dare I call it a demand? Yet, it shows no indication of stopping (or toning down) and, now that I look, is obviously directed straight at me.

Did I feed the geese tonight? Feedings are no longer quite so regular for the main group visits only at its convenience and the final family, still not old enough to fly, stays away more now.

Turning, I realize that is exactly what is occurring. The goose leader, one might surmise, is demanding their food.

I enjoy my belly laugh as they get their bellies filled.

Susan Crossett has lived outside Cassadaga for more than 20 years. A lifetime of writing led to these columns as well as two novels. “Her Reason for Being” was published in 2008 with “Love in Three Acts” following in 2014. Both novels are now available at Lakewood’s Off the Beaten Path bookstore. Information on all the Musings, her books and the author may be found at Susancrossett.com.