The wind is dying down. The clouds are dissipating. I have a cup of hot coffee with cranberry honey and 1/2 and 1/2. Life, for me at the moment, is good. This morning's cloud cover pretty well killed any view of the full moon. The local deer population, and, we think, one large doe in particular, is eating its way through our front porch pumpkin collection.
deer-munched pumpkins © harrington
I certainly don't begrudge them the treat, but I do wish deer were more partial to eating buckthorn and poison ivy. We have an abundance of both. I noticed that the DNR reports deer harvest is down this year, at least so far. They attribute it to the windy opening weekend. That makes sense to me, but in an unscientific survey, it seems to me that the local hunting pressure is down this year. Since we still have a lot of venison in the freezer, the hunters in the household have been otherwise engaged this season. Joan Mitchell nicely summarizes Minnesota Novembers in her poem.
The rusty leaves crunch and crackle,Blue haze hangs from the dimmed sky,The fields are matted with sun-tanned stalks —Wind rushes by.
The last red berries hang from the thorn-tree,The last red leaves fall to the ground.Bleakness, through the trees and bushes,Comes without sound.
Thanks for listening. Come again when you can. Rants, raves and reflections served here daily.