Weather, Man! Which way’s the wind blow?

We’ve lived in our house at the eastern edge of Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area for a generation (25 years +/-). During our occupancy, we’ve infrequently heard coyotes howling and yipping at night. Today is the first time we’ve seen one on or around the property. Looks like not much more than a pup. It would be great if s/he returns and captures a few of the pocket gophers.

backyard coyote

Photo by J. Harrington

There are several maple trees growing in front of the house. One of them has one leaf that’s turned bright red, plus one or two others that are multicolored. It could be another sign of autumn sneaking up on us, step by step, but the outside temperature of 92+ makes it hard to believe the meteorologists know what they’re doing with their claim that autumn begins September 1. Where we live, it seems it could work as well if they tried Autumn: Oct., Nov., Dec.; Winter: Jan., Feb., Mar.; Spring: Apr., May, Jun.; Summer: Jul., Aug., Sep. That way there would be less divergence (~ 10 days after) from equinoxes etc. than we have now (~ 21 days before). Shall we start a movement to adjust the meteorological calendar to bring it more into alignment with the astronomical calendar?

as a leaf turns

Photo by J. Harrington

I’m trying to rejuvenate my sourdough starter, rather than replace it. It will be interesting, as well as fun, to see if the instructions in Sourdough by Science, pay off. The weekend’s temperatures are too hot to try creating a starter from scratch by parking the mix outside, as I’ve done in the past. If the refresh fails, we’ll start from scratch later in the week. I’m enjoying rereading the book and am looking forward to cooler days and loaves of fresh bread.

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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