Signs of Summer #phenology

Yesterday was the first full day of Summer. Today we noticed the year's first day lilies in bloom. They're on the South side of the house in a sheltered ell, so it's not surprising they're often the first to blossom. From now into August, one or another version of a day lily will most likely be in flower around here.

first daylily blooms of the year

Photo by J. Harrington

First thing this morning, as I was hanging the bird feeders (June has historically been a prime month for bear visitations), I startled a whitetail doe who headed toward the pear tree; stopped; looked around; and wandered away. What was a little unnerving is that the doe's hair made her appear to be almost blond, or maybe strawberry blond. I've seen few such pale deer in Summer time. (Or in Winter for that matter.) If I didn't have some pictures from years past of pale deer I might think what I saw was actually a ghost deer. Most of our local herd is more a reddish / tan color like the one below.

whitetail doe at pear tree

Photo by J. Harrington

Earlier this month the Better Half made an interesting discovery near the front hose. If you look carefully at the picture below, you should be able to make out the snake skin that was shed (grayish band between the house and the violet leaves). What's visible in the picture is about half the total length. (I carefully retrieved the whole thing a couple of days after the picture was taken.) I'm full of hope and glee that the snake belonging to the skin (hognose or gopher?) is busily prowling the pocket gopher tunnels in the fields behind the house and having to frequently rest to digest a meal.

shed snakeskin

Photo by J. Harrington

Snakeskin

By Stephen Behrendt

Pruning back the old spirea bushes

that sprawled for years in summer's heat,

I bared the snake skin, a yard and a half long:

its naked empty length rippled in the streaming wind

lifting its ghostly coils from the dead shoots

that scraped the slough from the slithering body

that shed it in that narrow, shaded space.

I paused—who wouldn't?—shears poised,

slipped off gray canvas gloves, extracted

the sere, striated casing from the brown stalks

that had held it, silent, hidden.

I coiled the paper-thin curling sheath with care,

delicately, eased it into a simple squatty box

for keeping, for care, for my daughters

to take to school, to show, to explain

how some sinuous body we've never glimpsed,

that haunts about our shrubs, our porch,

left for us this translucent, scale-scored wrapper,

this silent hint of all that moves unseen.

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