It’s July as it is

Our area is back into severe drought conditions, again. Meanwhile, the Northeast is getting flooded and governments worldwide continue to drag their feet and fight about less existential things than climate weirding. It’s aggravating, frustrating and depressing, but it does have one redeeming characteristic: I’ve only had to mow once this season. Farmers, on the other hand, look like they’re managing a second cutting and baling of hay, unless things have been so bad they’re just getting to a first cutting now?

Minnesota drought conditions 7/4/23

On an even more local front, I believe the neighborhood mob of squirrels has stolen the pyrex-like glass container that fits into our grape jelly feeder. I filled it this morning and it’s gone now. I went and looked at  the ground under the hanger -- no glass container. I looked down the slope -- no glass container. I wandered around a bit -- no glass container. The container was/is too heavy for a songbird to move. Raccoons are more likely to enjoy nocturnal visits and nothing  else has been destroyed so it probably  wasn’t the neighborhood bear, who tipped over the compost tumbler a few days ago. I’m starting to have second thoughts about the joys of country living, but if we moved to the city or to a suburb, I’d have to put up with more people. I prefer critter persons, thank you, and no home owners association to fine me for not mowing grass that isn’t growing.

black-eyed Susans in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

We’ve arrived in black-eyed Susan season. They seem to me to be one of the cheeriest, happiest flowers around. There’s also a couple of swamp milkweed plants in bloom on the far side of the “wet spot” in our back yard. The ones growing on the near side last year seem to have disappeared. They’re pretty, and the butterflies love ‘em, but they don’t strike me as “happy” flowers. I’ve not yet noticed any clusters of wild bergamot, but expect to see some soon.

The World as It is

By Carolyn Miller

No ladders, no descending angels, no voice

out of the whirlwind, no rending

of the veil, or chariot in the sky—only

water rising and falling in breathing springs

and seeping up through limestone, aquifers filling

and flowing over, russet stands of prairie grass

and dark pupils of black-eyed Susans. Only

the fixed and wandering stars: Orion rising sideways,

Jupiter traversing the southwest like a great firefly,

Venus trembling and faceted in the west—and the moon,

appearing suddenly over your shoulder, brimming

and ovoid, ripe with light, lifting slowly, deliberately,

wobbling slightly, while far below, the faithful sea

rises up and follows.

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