Frosted dawn

Sunrise this morning poured light onto heavily frosted fields. This is the first hard frost I've noticed so far this season. The other morning my Better Half noted that a pre-sunrise frost in the moonlight looked like fairies in the field grasses. I was otherwise preoccupied that morning and missed it.

A hard frost's a'gonna freeze

Photo by J. Harrington

Come January or February, I'm likely to be saying negative things about the "pleasures" of living in Minnesota, but I don't think I'll every really understand how southern Californians can live somewhere that the leaves don't change color. The aspens / poplars have turned yellow, maples are all in flames, the sumac understory is maroon to bright red and the oaks are using most of an earth-tone palette. I really enjoy the colors, but, for the record, I miss the smell of burning leaves that I used to enjoy at this time each year when I was much younger, you know, in the last millennium. Since we've now had our first frost (although I'm not sure it counts as a "killing" frost), next week's warmup could qualify as Indian Summer. There's no sign yet that the deer have started to nibble on the pumpkins, possibly because they're still enjoying the literal windfall of pears that came down last week. It's been more than a week since a chipmunk wandered into the live trap. I'm not sure if they've all been transplanted or if those that are still around are busy getting ready for their Winter hibernation.

Truly Pathetic

By Neal Bowers 

Lately, the weather aches;

the air is short of breath,

and morning stumbles in, stiff-jointed.

Day by day, the sun bores the sky,

until the moon begins

its some disappearing act,

making the oceans yawn.

Even the seasons change

with a throb of weariness—

bud, bloom, leaf, fall.

If it would help,

I would paint my house silver

or sell it or buy

a red convertible.

I would, but who am I

to try to cheer up

the self-indulgent universe.

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