a week before Autumn Equinox #phenology

Among some other chores today, we emptied the algae-green tinted water from the birdbath, cleaned the bowl, and filled it with fresh, clear water. Within minutes. two chickadees and a female American goldfinch were drinking at the rim. Shortly thereafter, a red squirrel arrived, hopped around, and drank. We believe it's the combination of fresh water plus today's unseasonably humid weather that's attracting everyone.

acorns, before the Fall

Photo by J. Harrington

Each day it looks we see more and more leaves turning colors. There's a report in today's Star Tribune confirming our suspicions that this is a mast year for acorns. One of the chores on today's "among" list also involved oak trees. We've been collecting most of the dead branches, all different sizes, blown down from the oaks along the driveway by this week's winds. It's an annoyance, but we don't want them getting caught in the snow blower come Winter. Nature sometimes makes it a challenge to live one season at a time. We just noticed that we've already referred to Summer's humidity, Autumn's acorn drop, and Winter's snow as we described some of what's going on during a day in September.

a pair at the pear

Photo by J. Harrington

A few hummingbirds have been seen during the past couple of days, but the feeder level isn't dropping the way is was a week or so ago. Maybe some have already migrated? The hen and tom turkeys are flocked up by gender. A flock of hens has been visiting the deck feeder droppings with some regularity this week. A pair of does and this year's fawns(?) or last year's fawns - this year's yearlings have become regular visitors at the pear tree, which dropped a bunch of fruit during the windy days. It's always a pleasure to watch them and their graceful movements but we really wish they'd come and clean up the acorns all over the drive.

Pear

By Susan Stewart

Believing each simple thing passes from a perception that is less clear

into one that is, eventually, more clear. Believing each simple thing contains

within it a minimal unity beyond which whatever else can be

exists. That the two seeds, or four seeds, are where the pear will go and where

it began. Black bark, blossoms in the mild rain, smelling like piss

in the spring rain, the chips and twigs raining down beneath our weight

as we broke off bouquets for the teacher. “What is that smell?” she asked.

Stark, white, delicate, attached with green cuffs,

twig to twig, the blooms bursting through the runnels that

held them. Five runnels made in the foil by five fingers.

The given world is infinite and reality is complete.

That’s what I had written in the morning on the blackboard.

And then, going home, I was stalled

again on the bridge. I looked up and out and there

I saw the girl flying and falling, flying and falling

in the distance, in the narrow air between two buildings,

her arms outspread, over and over

against the strip of sky and above the gravel, or grass

or ground—the light changed and I couldn’t see at all

where or how she had dragged the trampoline

that must have been the yielding source of all her motion.

If you find a sight like this a kind of gift or sign, you’ve missed the way

the mind seals over, the way the simplest thing pulls on its heavy hood

and turns away slowly from a thought. For later, weeks later,

I was stalled again in mid-bridge and couldn’t remember,

yet could vaguely remember, the sense that something

was about to happen, that the light

would change like a bell or alarm

and that in turn would mean the time had come

when everyone must leave the school—

with every sweater and pencil left in place

—to burn, and burn

and burn back to the ground.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.