It's Summer, or not, - depends on who you ask #phenology

Meteorological Summer began almost a week ago, on Friday, June 1. Astronomical Summer won't begin until Thursday, June 21. If you're confused, here's the difference. Since we haven't yet burned our Winter's brush pile (too dry since the snow melted), maybe we'll hold off until the Solstice and invite our Celtic and pagan friends. First, of course, we'll need to secure a MNDNR Burn Permit.

celebrating a Summer Solstice

Photo by J. Harrington

Of late we've not been out and about as much as we'd like which may explain our lack of observations, so far this year, of snakes or turtles on our roadsides. Yesterday we did notice a swallowtail butterfly that had landed about ten or twelve feet off the ground among the leaves of a maple tree. We're not used to looking up in the trees for butterflies and have no idea if this is unusual or normal. There's something to research come our next rainy day.

a painted turtle crossing a country road

Photo by J. Harrington

Actually, we're looking forward(?) to getting back to some outdoor work now that we've finished the oil change on the tractor. There's still plenty more buckthorn to be pulled, which leads to another brush pile that we can torch come Autumnal equinox. One of the nice things about outdoor chores is they keep us away from news and social media which, these days, does wonders to improve our blood pressure and our general outlook on life. We've started to threaten, more and more, to become a Luddite, as the technology on which we've become dependent has become less reliable and secure. Since nature abhors a vacuum, we're exploring Druidry and Taoism, along with Zen, to help us adjust to whatever passes for a new "normal" these days. Each has a much longer and more reliable history than contemporary technology does.

Summer

By John Clare

Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come, 

For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom, 

And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest, 

And love is burning diamonds in my true lover's breast; 

She sits beneath the whitethorn a-plaiting of her hair, 

And I will to my true lover with a fond request repair; 

I will look upon her face, I will in her beauty rest, 

And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast. 

The clock-a-clay is creeping on the open bloom of May, 

The merry bee is trampling the pinky threads all day, 

And the chaffinch it is brooding on its grey mossy nest 

In the whitethorn bush where I will lean upon my lover's breast; 

I'll lean upon her breast and I'll whisper in her ear 

That I cannot get a wink o'sleep for thinking of my dear; 

I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away 

Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the day.

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