Neighborhood sumac is starting to show red leaves among the green. Goldenrod is blooming. Whitetail bucks are in velvet. Early this morning (pre day-break) held a delightfully coolish hint of September. Yesterday was Lughnasadh. Summer's slide into Autumn has started. Let's enjoy the ride.
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| which goldenrod species is this?
Photo by J. Harrington
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This morning I discovered the there's about a dozen and a half varieties/species of goldenrod in Minnesota. Most of them are native to our county. I have, thus far, failed miserably in identifying the species in the photo above. There's lots of them growing on our property. My preliminary guess is Canada goldenrod (Solidago canadensis). Your thoughts?
Thanks to the initiative, invitations and considerations of the Son-In-Law, I've been fishing twice this past week. That would be twice as often as I have during the past couple of years except that twice zero is zero. It felt good to get out and again play with some of my toys, despite an uncooperative breeze and a river full of kayak and canoe flotillas several occupants of which seemed to think we fly-fishers might be having as much, or maybe more, fun.
We are now less than two weeks from Minnesota's primary election and less than 100 days from the national midterm elections. Be sure to vote, preferably blue in the primary, definitely so in the general. We've had more than enough of the inmates running the asylum.
Three Songs at the End of Summer
A second crop of hay lies cut and turned. Five gleaming crows search and peck between the rows. They make a low, companionable squawk, and like midwives and undertakers possess a weird authority. Crickets leap from the stubble, parting before me like the Red Sea. The garden sprawls and spoils. Across the lake the campers have learned to water-ski. They have, or they haven’t. Sounds of the instructor’s megaphone suffuse the hazy air. “Relax! Relax!” Cloud shadows rush over drying hay, fences, dusty lane, and railroad ravine. The first yellowing fronds of goldenrod brighten the margins of the woods. Schoolbooks, carpools, pleated skirts; water, silver-still, and a vee of geese. * The cicada’s dry monotony breaks over me. The days are bright and free, bright and free. Then why did I cry today for an hour, with my whole body, the way babies cry? * A white, indifferent morning sky, and a crow, hectoring from its nest high in the hemlock, a nest as big as a laundry basket.... In my childhood I stood under a dripping oak, while autumnal fog eddied around my feet, waiting for the school bus with a dread that took my breath away. The damp dirt road gave off this same complex organic scent. I had the new books—words, numbers, and operations with numbers I did not comprehend—and crayons, unspoiled by use, in a blue canvas satchel with red leather straps. Spruce, inadequate, and alien I stood at the side of the road. It was the only life I had.
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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.
