The last week of “summer"

Next weekend is Labor Day, the official start of meteorological autumn and the unofficial end of summer vacation season. Our bur oak has already started dropping leaves. More trees are showing hints of autumn colors but hummingbirds are still coming to the sugar water feeders. We haven’t seen any dragonflies for weeks now. I hope it’s because we haven’t been paying enough attention in the right places but suspect the drought and the variable rain patterns may be contributors.

Ruby Meadowhawk

Photo by J. Harrington

Last night’s thunderstorms brought more rain but there’s still no water visible in the “wet spot” behind the house, although the Sunrise River pools in the Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area are really full. It’s an open question whether this fall’s migration will be more trickle down over the whole season or the waterfowl will have food and open water late enough that we’ll see a “grand passage” this year.

More and more folks who participate in fishing and hunting support strategies that help minimize and adapt to climate change and its effects. These are pretty much the same kind of people who insisted congress enact a tax on the equipment they use to help fund conservation efforts. Unlike those who are now complaining about “forgiveness” of some student loan debt, anglers and hunters have long recognized the truth of the late Senator Paul Wellstone’s observation that “We all do better when we all do better.” It seems that too many of us have lost track of the idea that a thriving community, or a country, is more than the aggregation of what’s best for each individual, especially if we also count corporations as people.

Joni Mitchell has written, and recorded, a wonderful song about the time of year we’re entering. It’s also been covered by some other talented singers such as Tom Rush. Not to rush a change of seasons, but to prepare for it, follow the link and enjoy him singing The Urge for Going. Then, please return and read:

Song for Autumn

by Mary Oliver

Don’t you imagine the leaves dream now
how comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of the air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees, especially those with
mossy hollows, are beginning to look for

the fires that will come—six, a dozen—to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
stiffens and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its long blue shadows. The wind wags
its many tails. And in the evening
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.

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