A pleasant alternative to the RNC

Hot! Humid! Thundershowers! Last week of it for this season? Let's hope so. I am looking forward to comfortably wearing my chamois shirts again. Nevertheless, artisan sourdough bread will go into the oven tomorrow morning and, a little more than an hour later, will be placed on a cooling rack. Meanwhile...

wild cucumber on cattails

Photo by J. Harrington

The pleasant alternative we promised starts with the picture above. As we headed for the county household hazardous waste facility today we noticed that more sumac leaves are turning red. A few other trees are also beginning to show color. Roadsides are showing lots of bright yellow flowers such as goldenrod and smooth oxeye plants and several species of sunflowers. Wild cucumber is still climbing and Joe Pye weed is in bloom. I'm at the point of admitting that it's time to follow the old advice about "he who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day."

goldenrod and smooth oxeye(?)

Photo by J. Harrington

If you can, as you can, get outside. Go for a walk, or a bike ride. Bring a camera and maybe a field guide. Before we know it, we'll be shoveling walks and driveways. But first we get to enjoy wildflowers and apples and pumpkins and autumn leaf colors and ... oh, yeah, fresh cider and asters in bloom. Just don't forget to request your absentee ballot, complete it and return it, preferably without relying on the USPS. Enjoy nature, then nurture democracy by voting blue across the board. Both of these will undoubtedly be better for all of us than watching or reading about the madness and incompetence the RNC is promoting, because that's all they  have to offer.

Autumn

By Alice Cary

Shorter and shorter now the twilight clips 

   The days, as though the sunset gates they crowd, 

And Summer from her golden collar slips 

   And strays through stubble-fields, and moans aloud, 

Save when by fits the warmer air deceives, 

   And, stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower, 

She lies on pillows of the yellow leaves, 

   And tries the old tunes over for an hour. 

The wind, whose tender whisper in the May 

   Set all the young blooms listening through th’ grove, 

Sits rustling in the faded boughs to-day 

   And makes his cold and unsuccessful love. 

The rose has taken off her tire of red— 

   The mullein-stalk its yellow stars have lost, 

And the proud meadow-pink hangs down her head 

   Against earth’s chilly bosom, witched with frost. 

The robin, that was busy all the June, 

   Before the sun had kissed the topmost bough, 

Catching our hearts up in his golden tune, 

   Has given place to the brown cricket now. 

The very cock crows lonesomely at morn— 

   Each flag and fern the shrinking stream divides— 

Uneasy cattle low, and lambs forlorn 

   Creep to their strawy sheds with nettled sides. 

Shut up the door: who loves me must not look 

   Upon the withered world, but haste to bring 

His lighted candle, and his story-book, 

   And live with me the poetry of Spring.

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