Tracking the Transition

Late summer days - 

Poetry flies on the wings 

Of small yellow birds.

The song birds are bunching, gathering in tree tops, their chatter filling the air like hundreds of small chimes clanging in the wind. All along the roadsides the tall grasses are turning brown. Goldenrod is blooming, and the last of the Queen Anne's lace. Bright yellow and orange jewelweed pods are plump with seeds that scatter with a pop when you brush against them, earning them the nickname "touch-me-not." It's fun to pop them with your fingers, something I delighted in doing as a small child and taught my grandchildren to do. Small J wanted to take the "popper path" rather than the Secret one to the farm whenever we went to feed the pigs or talk to the chickens and cows.

The mornings are cooler now and at dawn the grass is cold and wet with dew. Mild days full of sunshine follow only to fade into chilly darkness, thick with stars and stinging mosquitoes. Buzzy biting bugs will disappear with the first frost but until then they prosper, making both Parker the cat and me swat and slap and scratch. The cherry tomato plant on the patio is still bearing fruit though the large garden at the farm has been picked almost clean. Only the winter squash remain, their vines spreading out unchecked, the greening acorn globes and ripening butternut clubs peeking shyly from beneath the trailing leaves.

The great earth wheel turns, the seasons wax and wane, and despite the havoc raised by humans, things are as they should be.