and the season is...? #phenology

Today is one of those transitional "betwixt and between" days we get here in the North Country as one season morphs into the next.

• The sun is shining - any season
• Afternoon temperature 80℉ - Summer
• Local flower displays full of pots of chrysanthamums and asters - Autumn
• Strong breeze - any season
• Breeze blowing tumble seed heads from purple lovegrass - Autumn
• Oak leaves turning colors - Autumn
• Acorns all over the driveway - Autumn
• Hummingbirds still here - Summer(?)

early Autumn oak leaves

Photo by J. Harrington

The hornets(?) are drifting around, checking out their Winter over place in the rafters of the deck. We can remember a time, many years ago, when we would have felt compelled to "kill 'em all" before one of 'em stung us. Other than a time when we leaned on a bee or hornet or wasp that was standing on the back of the driver's seat we were starting to sit on, and another when we inadvertently mowed a yellow jacket nest, we've rarely been stung. If there are usually no (human other) young 'ins around, we try to live and let live.

road side asters in Autumn

Photo by J. Harrington

Last Saturday, for the first time this year, we finally noticed the local road side asters in bloom. We feared that the "improvements" the township is making to the local road might have wiped out the plants, or, perhaps the deer and cottontails had beat the township maintenance crew and contractors to the punch. We were really happy to see the pale purple and/or whiteish blooms last weekend.

Song for Autumn,

by Mary Oliver

In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.

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