Is this the week that autumn peaks?

Isn't today close to a peak autumn day? While doing some outside chores, I found myself waxing nostalgic for the "good old days" when leaves got raked into a pile into which children and puppies jumped and which was later burned, filling the air with a classic autumn aroma of burning leaves.  We get some of that when we light one of our brush piles. This week has been too dry and windy for us to be comfortable torching the pile in the back yard. (Last night the wind blew the aluminum cap off the fireplace chimney.) We hope the burning conditions improve before we have to disconnect the outside hose to keep from bursting a pipe with freeze-up. At least this involves annoyance level issues rather than anything critical.

whose blood is staining the bird feeder?

Photo by J. Harrington

Some time ago, we posted about the mystery of blood splotches on the outside of our deck walkout door. This morning, we noticed a similar pattern on the top of one of the bird feeders that hangs off of the deck. This reinforces our theory that an owl or hawk grabbed one of the red or gray squirrels that are constantly at the bird feeders. We're pretty sure there was no blood last night when we brought the feeders in. We only noticed it later in the morning as we took a break from the aforementioned outside chores.

We've lived in our house for about a quarter century and are still adjusting to the idea that we'll never actually be caught up on chores as we could be when we were much younger, single and living in a small apartment with a landlord to take care of the yard. We had only to take care of our truck, boat, and miscellaneous sporting equipment. As has been true for most of our life, we failed to appreciate just how good we had it at the time we had it so good. At least we know we don't have to look over our shoulders for hawks or owls while we're enjoying dinner or morning coffee.

Autumn

By Adam Zagajewski

Translated by Renata Gorczynski

Autumn is always too early.

The peonies are still blooming, bees   

are still working out ideal states,

and the cold bayonets of autumn   

suddenly glint in the fields and the wind

rages.

What is its origin? Why should it destroy   

dreams, arbors, memories?

The alien enters the hushed woods,   

anger advancing, insinuating plague;   

woodsmoke, the raucous howls

of Tatars.

Autumn rips away leaves, names,   

fruit, it covers the borders and paths,   

extinguishes lamps and tapers; young   

autumn, lips purpled, embraces   

mortal creatures, stealing

their existence.

Sap flows, sacrificed blood,

wine, oil, wild rivers,

yellow rivers swollen with corpses,

the curse flowing on: mud, lava, avalanche,   

gush.

Breathless autumn, racing, blue

knives glinting in her glance.

She scythes names like herbs with her keen   

sickle, merciless in her blaze

and her breath. Anonymous letter, terror,   

Red Army.

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