September, settling in

This morning's waxing gibbous moon was as close to full as it can get without actually being a full moon. That comes tomorrow. The Ojibwe call it Waatebagaa-giizis (Leaves Turning Moon), or manoominike-giizis (rice moon). The Lakota refer to it as canwape gi wi (moon of the brown leaves). Rice moon seems that it would be appropriate for a more limited area than leaves turning or brown leaves, but each nicely captures one of September's key features.

Leaves turning, brown leaves, rice moon

Photo by J. Harrington

Hummingbirds are still coming to the feeder today. (Noting each day we see one or more makes it more likely we'll notice when they've stopped showing up.) Some are also chasing away others. Locals and migrants? There seem to be at lest two pair, perhaps more. Next year we'll plan on adding at least one more feeder and see if that helps, although we've seen hummers at both the back and the front feeders yesterday and today, there seems to be more aggressive behavior around the back feeder.

leaves turned brown in September

Photo by J. Harrington

Today's cooler temperatures and cloudy skies are dampening our mood and seem to also be inhibiting the development of aggressive feeding in the sourdough starter we're trying to get started, although, in an ironic aside, the mason jar of "discarded starter" that we've collected seems to be bubbling more boisterously than the bowl of "good" starter we're working on. It will be fascinating to see how this actually plays out. We're up to day three and would be much happier if there were more bubbling action than we're seeing so far.

Porch Swing in September

Ted Kooser, 1939

The porch swing hangs fixed in a morning sun
that bleaches its gray slats, its flowered cushion
whose flowers have faded, like those of summer,
and a small brown spider has hung out her web
on a line between porch post and chain
so that no one may swing without breaking it.
She is saying it’s time that the swinging were done with,
time that the creaking and pinging and popping
that sang through the ceiling were past,
time now for the soft vibrations of moths,
the wasp tapping each board for an entrance,
the cool dewdrops to brush from her work
every morning, one world at a time.

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