the hummingbirds and insects are beginning to scrounge a bit. I've
asked my husband to leave the tall towers of lettuces alone, as they quietly go
to seed. As their blossoms open, and feed well all the hordes of pollinators.
Out back, the Bee Balm is closing up shop, the pink and violet blossoms the primary source of nourishment all July and all August.
The Echinacea seems not quite as compelling, but a valuable stalwart for all the butterflies now springing forth into their second incarnation.
Out back, the deer still graze across the meadows with pleasure, but the fox have made themselves scarce, with the grand nightly announcements that herald the return of all the coyote, for the coming cold season.
As BlueJays noisily swing into town, celebrating loudly their arrival , raucous as ever. Racing about the fields back and forth, just for the fun of it: bathing messily in the birdbath as they happily engage in their squabbles.
So I go out and stand in the failing light when dusk approaches, tired of watering all the gardens that feed and nourish all the living things; keeping track daily of who got watered when, as the rich easily drained soil holds the water just long enough for the plants to soak some up.
I look over the huge vegetable garden, at the giant eggplant stalks, the overburdened tomatoes, the quickly reproducing cucumbers, the tall brazen white and red Chard - that melts like butter in your mouth ; the deeply cleaved Kales of many varieties that we will be enjoying long after the killing frost comes to the village.
I walk over to the meadow's broad edge, all along the steep foothill we live upon , down into the outwaters, the forest, as colors shift and change in the sunset works tonight.
Down into the places that usually are happily wet, that this year stretch unhappily dry.
I'm imagining standing here, in December, February, in slippers and nightgown , watching my breath, as the darkness and cold fill me with the living, just before I dive into bed.
Out back, the Bee Balm is closing up shop, the pink and violet blossoms the primary source of nourishment all July and all August.
The Echinacea seems not quite as compelling, but a valuable stalwart for all the butterflies now springing forth into their second incarnation.
Out back, the deer still graze across the meadows with pleasure, but the fox have made themselves scarce, with the grand nightly announcements that herald the return of all the coyote, for the coming cold season.
As BlueJays noisily swing into town, celebrating loudly their arrival , raucous as ever. Racing about the fields back and forth, just for the fun of it: bathing messily in the birdbath as they happily engage in their squabbles.
So I go out and stand in the failing light when dusk approaches, tired of watering all the gardens that feed and nourish all the living things; keeping track daily of who got watered when, as the rich easily drained soil holds the water just long enough for the plants to soak some up.
I look over the huge vegetable garden, at the giant eggplant stalks, the overburdened tomatoes, the quickly reproducing cucumbers, the tall brazen white and red Chard - that melts like butter in your mouth ; the deeply cleaved Kales of many varieties that we will be enjoying long after the killing frost comes to the village.
I walk over to the meadow's broad edge, all along the steep foothill we live upon , down into the outwaters, the forest, as colors shift and change in the sunset works tonight.
Down into the places that usually are happily wet, that this year stretch unhappily dry.
I'm imagining standing here, in December, February, in slippers and nightgown , watching my breath, as the darkness and cold fill me with the living, just before I dive into bed.
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