Morning's Minion: "As Seasons Come and Go"

Sprawling self-sown zinnias in the wild garden.

A look at the weather forecast for the coming week promises no relief from heat for several more days. It was 90 F. at 5 p.m. when I stepped out the front door thinking to walk at least part way around the loop path.

The blast of heat quickly discouraged that plan.

I walked the lower part of the loop repeatedly on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, along the edge of the south ravine to where the land falls steeply away near the end of our property.

Elmo-cat was badly frighted on Wednesday by the dogs rushing at him.

He bolted into the underbrush and though J. and I called and searched for him, he didn't reappear until near dusk on Friday after Jim, booted and carrying a stout walking stick, slid and scrambled down into the ravine and made the thorny circuit calling his cat. The theory is that Elmo ran dementedly from the dogs, hid for several days in a massive brush pile, feeling lost. Apparently he crept out and realized he could find his way home on hearing 'his master's voice' at close range.

He sauntered in at dusk, less than an hour after Jim patrolled and called.

He has not ventured outside today, being quite clingy.

Elmo is also known as 'the orange eejit' which describes his personality and quirky brand of what passes for intelligence.

We are all grateful for his reappearance.

I took my old Canon camera with me on several of my rounds, wanting to record the shaggy autumn wildflowers that grow beyond the mown path.

I've begun clearing the tired annuals from the pots and planters ranged near the front door.

From a little distance the zinnias, French marigolds, blue salvia, have remained colorful; the dry September heat has left them browned and straggling, too rootbound to be revived by daily watering.

M. and G. presented me with two huge mums in a rich shade of rose/purple. I moved those into two of the larger tubs vacated by the annuals. The leaning zinnias have been dropping seeds into the gravel of the front area where they will likely pop up in the spring.

Autumn has always been my favorite season, too brief in my native New England and barely a breath between summer and the long winters of Wyoming.

Here in south-central Kentucky summer is a very long season which absorbs much of September.

The land is still green overall, yet the signs of fall are with us, The tulip poplars that line the ravines along with sycamore and hickory are the first to begin letting go of their leaves. The fallen leaves are wet with heavy dew early in the morning, but dry to crispness in the heat of afternoon.

The oaks near the small barn we call the 'snake shed' have been dropping green acorns. The resident squirrels have been busy gathering and stashing. Several times I have gotten within a few yards of one so busy scrabbling in the turf to bury a treasure that he/she didn't notice me.

The night of the full harvest moon was overcast, but for several evenings surrounding that event the moon rose huge and glowing.

I never sleep soundly during the phase of the waxing moon; my bedroom curtains are drawn aside and as the hours pass the light of the moon spills across my pillow, waking me from restless slumber.

Our hummingbird visitors have diminished in number. I can be certain of only three and they seem more interested in the wildflowers than in the one syrup feeder still dangling from the screened porch overhang.

I went out this morning to the untidy tangle of my wild garden wearing a bright coral long T-shirt garment in which I had slept. As I clipped a few buds from 'The Poet's Wife' a hummer whirred behind me in the branches of the white buddleia. Suddenly it zoomed toward me, buzzing off only when it realized I wasn't a huge and brightly flowered bush!

Daylight hours have noticeably diminished; there is a fog-streaked coolness at dawn, although the air has not yet attained the crisp wood smoke tinged scent that is the essence of autumn.

'Wars and rumors of wars,' madness and mayhem, the febrile rantings of politicians and would-be leaders.

Kentucky has been rocked this month by a madman who rained bullets down on passing cars from his perch on a cliff overlooking the highway before putting a gun to his own head.

There has been the fatal shooting of a young deputy sheriff in the next town; the murder of a judge in a rural county seat east of here; local schools shut down due to a bomb threat cited by kids who when caught out insisted it was a 'joke.'

It is sobering, scary even, to reflect that we can be unwittingly caught in the chaos which sometimes erupts around us.

And yet--tomorrow I will quietly take note of the autumnal equinox; I'll begin listening for the cronking calls of the sandhill cranes as they head for winter quarters on the North Platte; I hope I'll be outside to witness the V formations of wild geese on their fall pilgrimage.

I'll keep a syrup feeder replenished until I'm sure the last hummingbird has left.

I'll trudge along the meadow loop, picking up the feathers dropped by the three wild turkeys that daily parade the property.

There is comfort in knowing that whatever is wrong in the world--in my own tiny sphere or in the vastness of places that are only shapes on the map--the earth continues to revolve, the sun and moon take their daily paths, marking the seasons that quietly and come and go.