Who’s rushing it?

The tractor is back home. Unlike a horse, it couldn’t find its own way back to the barn. I had to go pick it up and give it a ride on the trailer. On the way, I got a brief look at the St. Croix river near Taylors Falls. It’s low enough that I want to go back soon, without the hindrance of a trailer, and get some pictures. I’ve not been able to locate a source of current flows in historical perspective but will keep poking around.

soon summer’s leaving us

Photo by J. Harrington

It’s slowly sinking in with me that, come the end of the month, autumn will arrive, according to the meteorologists. The astronomocists will, no doubt, be holding out several weeks beyond that, until the Equinox. Locally, that will be Saturday, September 23, 2023 at 1:50 am CDT. I can feel the heat and humidity dropping already.

The Better Half claims she’s waiting until autumn to reseed the yard. I pointed out that’s what she did last year. This summer’s weather has really thinned the already sparse green ground cover on our little piece of the Anoka Sandplain. Fortunately the local homeowner’s association (The Better Half and I) is extremely tolerant about “lawn” maintenance, or lack thereof.

“Autumn" in August brings the assembly of large flocks of sandhill cranes. It’s a little early for that but, while trailering the tractor home, I did manage to miss the three cranes standing in the middle of a county road. What possessed them to be there in the first place I won’t even try to guess.

[The directional change above and the autumnal focus was prompted by the arrival of today’s mail including a copy of Gray’s Sporting Journal, Bird Hunting Edition. Sorry if it took you by surprise.]

Merry Autumn

Paul Laurence Dunbar
1872 – 1906

It’s all a farce,—these tales they tell

     About the breezes sighing,

And moans astir o’er field and dell,

     Because the year is dying.

 

Such principles are most absurd,—

     I care not who first taught ’em;

There’s nothing known to beast or bird

     To make a solemn autumn.

 

In solemn times, when grief holds sway

     With countenance distressing,

You’ll note the more of black and gray

     Will then be used in dressing.

 

Now purple tints are all around;

     The sky is blue and mellow;

And e’en the grasses turn the ground

     From modest green to yellow.

 

The seed burrs all with laughter crack

     On featherweed and jimson;

And leaves that should be dressed in black

     Are all decked out in crimson.

 

A butterfly goes winging by;

     A singing bird comes after;

And Nature, all from earth to sky,

     Is bubbling o’er with laughter.

 

The ripples wimple on the rills,

     Like sparkling little lasses;

The sunlight runs along the hills,

     And laughs among the grasses.

 

The earth is just so full of fun

     It really can’t contain it;

And streams of mirth so freely run

     The heavens seem to rain it.

 

Don’t talk to me of solemn days

     In autumn’s time of splendor,

Because the sun shows fewer rays,

     And these grow slant and slender.

 

Why, it’s the climax of the year,—

     The highest time of living!—

Till naturally its bursting cheer

     Just melts into thanksgiving.

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