The Year's Wheel is turning

On the drive home from doing some errands this morning, we were startled when we noticed a bright red clump of sumac leaves. That, plus an increasing number of trucks and trailers hauling round bales of straw or hay to and fro through ours and nearby counties, look like early indicators that Summer has begun to slide into Autumn and harvest season.

sumac's sudden splash of Summer red

Photo by J. Harrington

The goldenrod that's recently come into bloom and a few poison ivy leaves turning (prematurely?) red were last week's hints that the Circle of the Year is turning toward the next season. This Saturday is Lughnasadh, "which marks the beginning of harvest time..." according to Druids. Our human calendar, the one that marks seasons that begin and end on certain dates, is a mechanical contrivance which fails to properly portray the organic overlapping that occurs in the real world. It works for kids, for whom Summer lasts from end of school to start of school, but not so much for farmers, naturalists, anglers and others more attuned to nature's rhythms.

goldenrod has started to bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

Sometime around a month from now, local apple season begins! My favorite time of year ever since I graduated from school permanently. Back in Massachusetts it also meant that striped bass and bluefish were starting their Southern migration preparations and feeding heavily. Here in the Midwest, it's time to squeeze in a few more trout fishing trips before the seasons close for awhile to let many of the fish (brown and brook trout) spawn in peace. It's also when deciduous tree leaves change color before falling to the ground. Throw in cool nights and warm, not hot nor humid, days and it's hard to beat for a time when we can be glad to be alive after shaking Summer's lethargy.

Midsummer

William Cullen Bryant - 1794-1878

A power is on the earth and in the air,
  From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid,
  And shelters him in nooks of deepest shade,
From the hot steam and from the fiery glare.
Look forth upon the earth—her thousand plants
  Are smitten; even the dark sun-loving maize
  Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze;
The herd beside the shaded fountain pants;
For life is driven from all the landscape brown;
  The bird hath sought his tree, the snake his den,
  The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men
Drop by the sunstroke in the populous town:
  As if the Day of Fire had dawned, and sent
  Its deadly breath into the firmament.

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