Ch-ch-ch-changes

Since next weekend occurs after September 1, today is the last weekend of (meteorological) summer. A little hoppy toad in the driveway help us say goodbye. We’re moving into autumnal mode, although there are still peaches and watermelon available. Fresh, local, sweet corn marks, for me, a transition. Last night’s low temperatures dropped below 60℉. That’s another indication a transition is underway.

hoppy toad time

Photo by J. Harrington

Yesterday was another marker. The Vikings lost the last of their three preseason games. From what we’ve seen so far, it will be a pleasant surprise if they have a .500 season. The Better Half is speculating the coach is deliberately lowering expectations, so the team can take their opponents by surprise. I believe that only works for a few games, if that. We’ll see what happens.

The afternoon was spent collecting and burning yet more of the perpetual fall of dead branches from our trees. Many of the branches are remains of last autumn’s tree removal. The crew had promised to do a good job of cleaning up but their best intentions were hindered by an early season snow storm. This year’s abundant acorn drop from our bur oaks is compounding the mess. I’m trying to convince myself that this is the life stylle I signed uo for when we moved to the country. Since our property, and an additional six plus sections of land, have been annexed by an adjoining city, I’m no sure we’re still enjoying country living. Stay tuned. At the moment we’re not even sure whether it will be the township or the city that will be ploughing snow next winter. Do not ask me if I believe our annexation laws and procedures represent any kind of government by the consent of the governed.

In any case, hanging out around the fire pit this afternoon was a bit of an atavistic pleasure. The flames and woodsmoke aroma were a little reminiscent of many a pleasant an autumn and winter day ensconced by the fireplace in a comfy chair with a good book and pleasant company. May there be more days like that in our futures, but not until we’ve enjoyed some sunny but cooler days full of apples and leaves turning colors.

Autumn

By Sydney Lea

Why not write something for those

who scratched out improbable livings here?

Someone has managed to sow

This broken field with stones, it appears,

 

So someone’s scratching it still,

Although that Japanese knotweed has edged

The tilth. Two wasps in the child

Attempt to catch sun on a rail of the bridge.

 

The old local doctor has passed

At almost a full decade past ninety.

He never seemed depressed.

Seventy now, if barely,

 

I consider the field again:

Someone will drag these rocks away

But they’ll be back. The air smells like rain,

Which is fine, the summer’s been much too dry.

 

Nothing is left of the barn

But some rusty steel straps in some nasty red osier.

The stone fence still looks sound,

But even there the knotweed steps over.

 

Hadn’t I pledged an elegy

To the old ones who worked here? You couldn’t claim

They thrived, exactly, but maybe

They likewise scented good wind full of rain,

 

Lifted eyes above this old orchard

To the cloud-darkened hills and found their support

Somehow, somewhere. No matter,

They kept going until they could go no more.

 

The trees’ puckered apples have gathered

A flock of birds, and as they alight,

They’re full of unseasonable chatter,

As if to say that all will be right.

 

The old ones I promised a poem

Must have said it too. It’ll be all right.

I never knew them. They’re gone.

I say it out loud, It’ll be all right.

 

 

—Caledonia County, Vermont

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