We’re getting warm again!

I think this is what’s called Indian Summer, but maybe not. We’ve already had a measurable snow fall and the air isn’t particularly hazy. Let’s go with Sandy Griswold’s description [follow preceding link]. I’m feeling more poetical than scientific today.

I appear to have recovered from the ancillary effects of my COVID booster, at least well enough to use the mulching mower to turn much of the leaf fall into mulch for the Better Half’s day lily garden. If I’ve read correctly, the leaf mulch may also serve as an overwintering shelter for caterpillars and creatures of similar ilk. That makes me feel good about getting a twofer or even a threefer out of a couple of hours work today. In the interest of pacing myself (“He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day!”) I left some to tackle tomorrow.

more leaves on the ground or on the trees?

Photo by J. Harrington

We’re at or rapidly approaching the time of year when there are more leaves on the ground than in the getting bare trees. Halloween’s about 10 days away. Election Day is slightly more than two weeks from now. This is about as autumn as it gets. I’m guessing you’ve heard some variation on the story of the Northerner who finally broke down and bought a snow blower, and it never snowed hard all winter? He wasn’t sure, after spending the money, how he felt about that. Well, the Better Half has given me a couple of early Christmas presents, nice warm sweaters. Just after I received the second sweater, the Indian Summer weather began. I promise not to complain if I never need to wear the warmer of the two sweaters all this winter. Let’s see how long our warm spell lasts.

Indian Summer

By Diane Glancy

There’s a farm auction up the road.

Wind has its bid in for the leaves.

Already bugs flurry the headlights

between cornfields at night.

If this world were permanent,

I could dance full as the squaw dress

on the clothesline.

I would not see winter

in the square of white yard-light on the wall.

But something tugs at me.

The world is at a loss and I am part of it

migrating daily.

Everything is up for grabs

like a box of farm tools broken open.

I hear the spirits often in the garden

and along the shore of corn.

I know this place is not mine.

I hear them up the road again.

This world is a horizon, an open sea.

Behind the house, the white iceberg of the barn.

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