Woolly bear time? #phenology

First, we wish success to the folks demonstrating against Enbridge’s Line 3 and for wild rice, clean water and honoring treaty rights. If it were not for the fact that a Republican administration would be even worse, leaving progressives with few places to turn, we suspect the Democrats in the Minnesota governor’s mansion and the White House might be more receptive to honoring their pledges to treat our climate crisis as the priority it should be. It does, however, mean that many progressives might see it as I do and decide to vote for Democrats but let their corporate masters pay for Democratic political campaigns. What a sad commentary on a supposedly world-leading democracy. Enough! On to brighter topics.

woolly bear on patio screen

Photo by J. Harrington

We’ve reached that time of year when those of us in the North Country need to keep our eyes open for woolly bear caterpillars. They’re black at either end, sort of copperyish brown in the middle and about two inches long. This is when they begin to crawl along roads, sidewalks etc., looking for a place to spend the winter months in a pile of dead leaves or something  comparable. In case you’re interested, the woolly bear is the caterpillar of the Isabella tiger moth.

Yesterday we were blessed with rain. More, in the order of several inches, is forecast for tomorrow through  week’s end. It would have been more helpful during the growing season, but  we’ll take it and hope for a more balanced distribution next spring and summer.

Moths

By Jennifer O'Grady

Adrift in the liberating, late light

of August, delicate, frivolous,

they make their way to my front porch

and flutter near the glassed-in bulb,

translucent as a thought suddenly

wondered aloud, illumining the air

that's thick with honeysuckle and dusk.

You and I are doing our best

at conversation, keeping it light, steering clear

of what we'd like to say.

You leave, and the night becomes

cluttered with moths, some tattered,

their dumbly curious filaments

startling against my cheek. How quickly,

instinctively, I brush them away.

Dazed, they cling to the outer darkness

like pale reminders of ourselves.

Others seem to want so desperately

to get inside. Months later, I'll find

the woolens, snug in their resting places,

full of missing pieces.

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