The coming of August marks a fascinating time of the year for me. It is usually in the month named after Caesar Augustus that the rustle of leaves stirred by the wind takes on a different sound.

It is to me the first sign that fall is near. But August mornings are of particular interest to me. There is something about them that takes me back in time. It may be the feel of the early morning air or a combination of the sounds and smells of late summer. Whatever it is, I find myself suddenly standing in tall weeds at the edge of a tobacco patch an hour before first light.

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