TODAY? TOMORROW?

Each morning I look out, staring into the darkness, checking for movement…expecting, wondering, hoping. 

A single question is uppermost in my mind: Is today the day?

I try to not be too discouraged by the empty moments. It is, after all a bit early. 

Cold, too—48˚F according to the big thermometer just beyond the breakfast table window. That's getting down there. And the weather oracles are calling for a low of 38˚F tomorrow night, which has to be the—

Wait! What's that? A tiny moving shape among the shadows. Yes! The rubythroats are still here…at least one, though who knows for how long. Tomorrow is the last day of September. The weather has been rainy, windy, and decidedly cool for the past week. Surely the little hummingbird now sipping from the feeder is one of the few lingerers remaining. 

The earth turns, time moves on, summer has given way to autumn which is following the endless circular path toward winter, a new year, another spring. So it has been; so it will be. To everything there is a season.

Nevertheless, I am blessed. Today I still have hummingbirds!

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RAIN AND RECOVERY

Old field asters near the river. I took this photo a dew days ago. 

It is dim and damp out, thanks to a heavy overcast and intermittent showers—some of them heavy—which began with a thunderstorm about 3:30 a.m. Additional rain is pretty much the outlook for the remainder of today. The same pattern is expected to last throughout Wednesday. The river is already up by several feet, and will likely continue to rise for awhile—the first round of high water we've had in months. Not that I expect it to become worrisome.

I'm still stiff and sore and gimping around to the point of near-incapacity from working on our woodpile most of Saturday, plus what litte we could manage yesterday. That's about par for my decrepit back…after just one day of mediocre work, I need several days of recovery before I can again walk upright without pain, or lift anything heavier than a cup of coffee. If I were a horse, someone would have shot me long ago and hauled my sorry carcass off to the fertilizer factory. 

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Yesterday morning, my daughter, son-in-law, fellow-father-in-law, along with a family friend and her twin daughters, were all on the way to church when they were T-boned by an elderly driver trying to make a left turn. The impact spun them around, popped the side-panel airbags, front and rear, and did significant damage to my daughter's new Honda Accord. However, God was watching over everything, protecting, guiding, minimizing, caring. Other than a few bumps and a bad scare, everyone—including the other driver—was unharmed. Cars can be repaired or replaced; family and friends are precious beyond words and irreplaceable. I'm grateful the auto's safety systems worked, glad that no one was injured, and more than anything, thankful to God for His countless blessings.   

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HELLOOOOO, AUTUMN!

On the way back from the eye doc's yesterday, I stopped at a little prairie patch up the road, where I made this photo of a southbound monarch nectaring atop a goldenrod.  

Whoopee! Autumn is officially here and summer but a receding memory. Still, truth be told, the new season could have done a bit better with its premiere—a bit of blue sky, some sunshine, maybe a nice little breeze to rustle the drying leaves and blow the last wisps of the previous three months well away.

Instead, the temperature is currently 53˚F; it has been raining since just after midnight; and the morning sky didn't so much embrace the dawn as it did turn—reluctantly and by only a few degrees—from soppy black to a dingy gray the shade of an old wool sock. 

Not the finest fall debut I've ever witnessed. But I'll take it and be glad, for I know better days are a'comin'. 

HELLOOOOOO, AUTUMN!

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SUMMER'S LAST DAY

Today is the last day of summer…and as if the season were trying to atone for its excessive weeks of sweltering heat, it has served up a parting gift of bright sunshine and refreshing cool temperatures. I'll take both, thank you very much, and consider this temporary reprieve from yesterday's prediction of continued showers a sort of peace offering until next year.

At a glance, you might not notice we're on the cusp of seasonal change. The vegetation along the river is still mostly green. You have to search for any leaf sporting a hint of color. But a close look reveals an overall rustiness to the landscape, a weary yellowing, like a tired carnival troupe at the end of long tour. Summer has lost its vibrant shine, time moves on, autumn's golden flames are starting to glow.     

The weatherman still calls for rain tomorrow, which means it's not likely I'll be able to get out and about and welcome autumn with a long ramble afield. So, after my morning appointment at the eye doctor's, I think I'm going to jump the gun and do my seasonal-hello amble early. 

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HERON IN THE RAIN

It's raining here today—heavily at times. Tuesday's jade-green river is now brown and already a foot higher than it was yesterday. It will doubtless continue to rise throughout the day and night. 

According to the weatherman, the rest of the week and the weekend will see more of the same. I've decided this calls for a big pot of chicken and vegetable soup, and plan to settle in and relax for the duration. With the cooler temps, I'm thinking Myladylove and I can have a hearthfire this evening.

Frankly, I'm good with the above scenario…or at least until the grub runs low, my supply of mysteries from the library need exchanging, and the lack of outdoor time starts threatening to give me a case of the heebie-jeebies. But the great blue heron who usually hangs around the Cottage Pool is bummed. When I looked out the window a few minutes ago, the big bird had sought a perch on the stump-end of a bankside log, back in the edge of the island's woods and some distance from the water. In the dim light he looked waterlogged and out-of-sorts, like any sustenance angler, underwhelmed by the prospects of having to fish the higher, muddy water for his supper.

I suppose I could offer to share my soup…

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RAGTAG REDNECK REDBIRD

It happens to all of us every now and then…the seasons surprise you with an unexpected change and you get caught without quite having your new wardrobe fully put together.

At least I think that's the case with this male cardinal I saw in a hackberry tree near the cottage recently. Either that, or else he's just a fashion disaster when it comes to coordinating his outfit. A ragtag redneck redbird. 

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WANING MOON, GREENING RIVER

Yesterday morning, life-giving mug of coffee in hand, I stepped onto the deck for my usual look-about. The sky overhead was a radiant azure, with faint daubs of gossamer white clouds to the west. A waning quarter moon traced its arcing path toward the horizon. These next few nights will be the final appearances for this year's version of that fabled Harvest Moon; our next full moon, which will occur on October 11, will be the almost equally storied Hunter's Moon.

Time moves steadily on. Just like the river, which last Friday did its astonishing overnight color switch, turning from opaque brown to bright green. This annual phenomenon—so dramatic it's nothing short of natural magic—happens at that point when summer is transitioning onto autumn. The weather cools into the mid-50s for several nights in a row with a concurrent drop in water temperatures. 

I've never seen any mention of this sudden "greening" of a stream in anything I've read, so I'm not sure exactly what's going on to cause such an abrupt color change. My best guess is that the water's heretofore impenetrable shade of gray-brown—which, if you didn't know better, might be mistaken for being muddy—is due to some species of algae that's been thriving in the stream's nutritious summer warmth. Then, as the water begins to cool, a critical point is reached which triggers a widespread die-off—like a group of houseplants you forgot to take indoors at night succumbing to frost. That would explain why one day the river is instantaneously a delightful luminous chartreuse—a green so impossible it looks unnatural, as if the water had been colored with dye. 

Too, I've noted the peak of this brilliant crazy green lasts only a few hours. By the following day, the color has toned down considerably. This may indicate the glowing temporary green is the color of the dying algae rather than of completely dead plants, and might explain why the green continues to gradually fade over the next couple of months. By mid-November, and on through the heart of winter, the river's clarity is pristine—a colorless mirror which can look blue or gray, gold or black, pink, orange, turquoise or purple, depending on the sky and angle of light.

Today is cloudy with sprinkles. So…no waning Harvest Moon in the morning sky. But the river, now the color of old jade, is whispering the news of seasonal change.

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