The full moon of August, the Sturgeon Moon ( A name of respect and honor and observation bestowed by Native Americans ) is upon us. The quickening pulse of nature's way as a new season approaches is palpable. Darkness descends earlier. Night breezes have a hint of coolness. Tonight coyotes yip from over the hills. Crickets have increased their crescedo of chirps. Night shadows seem to dance in the moonlight between my black walnuts and the rusted tin roof of my failing barn.   Deer snort in the meadow disturbed by my late evening intrusion of greetings. "Hey girls, it's just me", I  tell them. They - a doe and two fawns-  loiter for a moment, then bolt into the sanctuary of my  woods. Later the screech owl will add to the night magic. And dawn will bring more zipping about the nectar feeder by high-strung ruby throated hummingbirds. They sip voraciously now and dodge yellow jackets who compete for the sweets. Only the great blue heron seemingly remains unphased, standing staquesque at the edge of the marsh waiting for the slighest twitch of a frog or movement of a fish. But actually I suspect the heron also behaves in ways we don't comprehend, and that magnifcant bird of a sultry summer senses warm days are waning, a time signaled by the full moon of August.