September song

Today is the first full day of autumn. In a week, we start October, possibly my favorite month of the year. Last night we enjoyed the Better Half’s beef barley soup and some of my artisan sourdough bread for supper. It felt seasonal as the rain came down and the temperatures dropped.

The low spot in the driveway is full of water, a clear indication that quite a bit of rain has fallen. We’re enjoying an interlude with a few breaks in the clouds and an extended spell without precipitation. Showers are supposed to start again this evening and continue all night. The dogs and I were grateful that raindrops didn’t keep falling on our heads during our walks today.

A couple of times over the past few days I’ve seen what I think was a stink bug climbing up the outside of 1) the picture window and 2) the walkout door. Usually, I only see such a critter once it's inside the house, at which point we try to use the old clear plastic cup and piece of cardboard trick to catch the critter and then release it outside. (This works on most spiders too, but not, so far, on the jumping kind.)

September robins bird bathing

Photo by J. Harrington

If we had had our rainy spell a couple of weeks ago, we might again have enjoyed watching migrating robins frolicking in a bird bath in the driveway. According to Journey North, robin migration is more complex than I would have expected. Maybe some will still drop in this year before the puddle dries out.

Autumn

Alice Cary     1820 – 1871

Shorter and shorter now the twilight clips
   The days, as though the sunset gates they crowd,
And Summer from her golden collar slips
   And strays through stubble-fields, and moans aloud,

Save when by fits the warmer air deceives,
   And, stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower,
She lies on pillows of the yellow leaves,
   And tries the old tunes over for an hour.

The wind, whose tender whisper in the May
   Set all the young blooms listening through th’ grove,
Sits rustling in the faded boughs to-day
   And makes his cold and unsuccessful love.

The rose has taken off her tire of red—
   The mullein-stalk its yellow stars have lost,
And the proud meadow-pink hangs down her head
   Against earth’s chilly bosom, witched with frost.

The robin, that was busy all the June,
   Before the sun had kissed the topmost bough,
Catching our hearts up in his golden tune,
   Has given place to the brown cricket now.

The very cock crows lonesomely at morn—
   Each flag and fern the shrinking stream divides—
Uneasy cattle low, and lambs forlorn
   Creep to their strawy sheds with nettled sides.

Shut up the door: who loves me must not look
   Upon the withered world, but haste to bring
His lighted candle, and his story-book,
   And live with me the poetry of Spring.

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