On a recent morning, I sat on a wooden bench near the front of the cottage, sipping coffee and savoring the signs of summer’s unfolding.

Daisy Dog was snuffling about in the yard, happily engaged in her usual investigatory business.

Fist-size pink blooms on the old rose briar that twists and dangles along the top of the board fence sparkled with dew.

The early air was still cool, damp, soft, though the day’s forecast promised mid-80s highs.

Nearby grass was glazed by a light sheen of moisture, reminiscent of those August mornings ahead when heavy dews will silver roadside meadows and turn fenceposts, spiderwebs, and a thousand other things and objects equally commonplace into stunning works of natural art.

Off to the east, the just-risen sun was concealed — hidden somewhere behind the swirling veil of gauzy mist so thick it rendered everything 20 feet above the ground invisible.

The light was indirect, shadowless, a sort of mysterious overall glow. The sort of magical illumination that makes you believe in fairies and leprechauns.

Not a hint of our neighbor’s rambling two-story house at the top of the hill could be discerned, nor anything of the huge maples and oaks that shade her yard. In fact, the road leading up to her place was rather ethereal and nebulous, as if it might fade away into another realm at any moment.

Looking up, above my head, even the higher reaches of our own towering sycamores were lost, enshrouded within the diaphanous vapors.

Bergamot is a cousin to bee balm. The patch 20 feet from where I sat, which had been a mass of magenta blooms a couple of weeks ago, was now past its prime.

When the minty flowers were at their peak, dozens of excited bumblebees and almost as many hummingbirds droned and whirred, loudly, zipping and sipping, hither and yon, drawn by the heady perfume. Bees and hummingbirds go positively giddy over bergamot’s tasty supply of sweet nectar. They arrived daily, in astonishing numbers, to take their fill.

Now, however, the sweet blooms are mostly gone and those busy bees and hummers will be doing the bulk of their nectar foraging elsewhere.

On the other hand, a patch of chicory near the mailbox post was just coming into full bloom — though the flowers wouldn’t open until the fog lifted and the sun climbed into the sky; early in the morning, chicory blossoms choose to remain resolutely closed.

Chicory — or blue sailor — isn’t a native but was brought to this country by early settlers. Though mere weeds to some folks nowadays, in Europe, chicory was historically highly prized and widely cultivated. Europeans raised chicory for the flowers, foliage, and roots. They used the young leaves in salads, and older stems as cattle forage. They also ground and added chicory’s dried roots into their coffee.

Unwanted weed or useful wildflower… it’s all a matter of perspective.

I like chicory. The blooms are a beautiful shade of blue — blue the exact color of a bright July sky; a blue undaunted by summer’s heat and sun. A cheery blue, the very essence of the season.

After a while the fog thinned, and I looked beyond the yard to a fallow corner. White clouds of Queen Anne’s lace were visible throughout this small bit of meadow. A week ago, only a few pale heads poked above the mishmash of grass and weeds. The morning’s dampness had softened their stems an inch or two below the flowers, allowing the heavier heads to nod over — a trick some scientists think evolved in order to protect the bloom’s pollen.

An old Michigan fisherman I was fortunate enough to occasionally share various backcountry brook trout wallows with, always kept a jar of his “Queen Anne” ointment on hand. A concoction of the plant’s finely-grated roots mixed with sweet oil. This homemade compound was applied to burns, scrapes, and cuts and my friend swore by its curative powers.

Queen Anne’s lace is a member of the carrot family. The plant’s verified medicinal effect relies on the healing properties of carotene, which changes into vitamin A within the body.

Ahhh-h… how wonderful it is to sit a spell on such a fine midsummer morning—to take in the view and consider July’s gifts and implications.

Soon gardens will overflow. Spring’s planting will turn into autumn’s harvest, and all the feeding and weeding, watering, and nurturing will pay their tasty dividends.

July is a subtle month, rather laid-back and lazy, lacking both May’s explosive chlorophyll kick-off and September’s race-to-the-wire push.

Yet this deliberate pacing should never be confused with complacency. While it may seem like only yesterday that spring’s first wildflowers were just making their pastel splashes on a newly-green landscape, we’re already a month past the solstice. The sun is daily edging southward. Dawn comes later, darkness arrives earlier. Only two more months of summer remain—and the celestial clock is forever ticking.

Time indeed flies!

Summer won’t endure forever.

Reach Jim McGuire at [email protected].