Early July observations #phenology

The past couple of mornings, the predawn sky has been covered with a thin film of clouds, not thick enough to block the rising sunlight, instead filtering it to cast a strange shade of yellow on the local landscape. Such eerie starts to a day are nevertheless preferable, by far, to some of the cloud formations, colors (greenish pewter tints), and resulting precipitation seen in photos of South Dakota the past few days.

Elderberry bushes have been blooming for several days. More and more common milkweed has come into flower. So far, no sign of the swamp milkweed by the wet spot in the backyard. We can but cross our fingers and hope. On the bright side, orange day-lilies are blossoming everywhere.

swamp milkweed in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

The last two times I’ve taken the kitchen compost bucket to empty into the compost tumbler, the active side has actually been steaming. I don’t remember ever seeing that before. Since I didn’t get the three sisters garden planted (again) this year, I need to figure out where to use the “finished” compost on the other side of the tumbler.

The usual suspects have been arriving at the bird feeders and bath, but, based on how frequently refills are required these summer days, there’s a lot more visitors than a month or six weeks ago. Goldfinches will begin to nest over the next several weeks as thistle down fluff becomes available for nest lining.

Despite what we’ve done to the climate, at least nature is behaving more “normally” than much of the human sector these days. That probably explains why so many scientists are noting that the world will continue even if we don’t get our gases under control. It’s US generators of excess gasses that will be gone.

Little Summer Poem Touching The Subject Of Faith

by Mary Oliver

Every summer
I listen and look
under the sun's brass and even
into the moonlight, but I can't hear

anything, I can't see anything --
not the pale roots digging down, nor the green
stalks muscling up,
nor the leaves
deepening their damp pleats,

nor the tassels making,
nor the shucks, nor the cobs.
And still,
every day,

the leafy fields
grow taller and thicker --
green gowns lofting up in the night,
showered with silk. 

And so, every summer,
I fail as a witness, seeing nothing --
I am deaf too
to the tick of the leaves, 

the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet --
all of it
happening
beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum. 

And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in the dirt

swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear? 

One morning
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn's beautiful body
is sure to be there.

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