As the signs align

It’s mid-afternoon, Saturday, August 13, here in the North Country. The temperature hasn’t yet reached 70℉. Returning from a visit with the Son Person, the Better Half and I noticed a maple tree whose leaves have turned from green to autumn colors. Roadside ditches are full of goldenrod, joe pye weed flowers, wild cucumber in bloom and some thistle flowers.

Hummingbirds are still at the sugar water feeder. Purple finches again are showing up at the sunflower seed feeder. The folks at Journey North remind us:

Time to think fall migration. During August, the monarch super generation will emerge and start their migratory journey south. 

monarch butterflies on blazing star

Photo by J. Harrington

We’ve seen very few monarchs this summer. Of several possible sightings, the critters didn’t hold still long enough for me to be sure whether I was looking at a monarch or a viceroy.

There’s about 2 1/2 weeks of meteorological summer remaining. September 1 starts meteorological autumn. We have once again entered a season in which I’m never sure what to put on when I get up in the morning. It seems as though I’m usually over or underdressed. The Better Half and I are now regularly turning the ceiling fan on or off. Soon it will be time to get the furnace tuned up for heating season.

“And the seasons they go round and round ...” 

 

As If

By J. Allyn Rosser

How do you explain why elephants

appear to move their unwieldy hulks

with greater dignity than most humans do

in their finest moments,

as if they had evolved beyond wanting

anything but what they have?

Why does the field begin to ripple

before the wind arrives in whispers,

as if there were a communication,

as if the landscape were poorly dubbed,

and we weren’t expected to notice?

What butterfly does not dart away from us

as if it could sense our latent cruelties,

and yet return to check and double-check? 

Has the night not gotten recently darker,

as if to insinuate that we have squandered 

the light that was there?

Have we made too much of our own?

And did you notice afterward the dawn 

opening up with a tentative eagerness

as if there were something crucial to illumine,

as if we would wake up early just to see it?

I imagine you reading this now 

with an expression of quiet trouble

itself troubled by currents of hope, 

as if you imagined me here with you, 

as if I might be able to see your expression,

and at least answer it with mine.

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