Tending Summer's bucket list

As we headed toward the Daughter Person and Son-In-Law's home earlier today, we were set upon, almost, by a semi-suicidal hen turkey. She leapt from a tree beside the road and landed almost in front of the jeep. This was the first local turkey we've seen in some time. We missed her by a foot or two and she promptly dashed for the safety of the field next to the road.

late Summer, backyard turkey flock

Photo by J. Harrington

Yesterday, as we were driving through Northern Washington County, we saw several small flocks of turkeys, including some poults. They've been really scarce around the property this year. We've no idea why nor, for that matter, if they actually are scarce or we just haven't been seeing them. Other years we often got to watch flocks of hens and poults pecking their way through the fields behind the house. We've seen only one or two appearances so far this year.

Although this is Labor Day weekend, and the last day of meteorological Summer, we'll save waxing nostalgic for some other posting. There's no "back to school' excitement around here, the kids are all grown up and have been for many years. We basically had a staycation this Summer and we're still trying to figure out how it is that we managed to not do lots of the things we had on our list, things like more trout fishing and day trips to places like Crex Meadows. Fortunately, we still have some opportunities to work those in before the snow starts to fly. At least, we sure hope we do. But today is a quiet, lazy, end of Summer day so we're going to keep this short and sweet. Enjoy the holiday weekend and the start of meteorological Autumn tomorrow and, keep you eyes open for the rumored Northern Lights!

Three Songs at the End of Summer

Jane Kenyon- 1947-1995

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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