Our hot, humid summer is turning brittle around the edges
It’s reassuring, really, how fall arrives
Even after the hottest of summers
I will miss the months of extravagance
But not for long
Because spring is assured, even after the coldest of winters
Summer has filled the yard with flying insects.
I don’t care for the sudden swarms of biting flies and mosquitoes, but the dragonflies seem happy. They hunt ravenously from dawn to dusk, eating everything they can catch–including flies and mosquitoes.
(Of course, they pause every so often to mate.)
Butterflies aren’t as numerous as dragonflies, but the butterfly bush, milkweed, and lantana draw a surprising variety of species.
Bees are more interested in the salvia and dill.
And the June bugs seem strangely attracted to Treebeard, our young live oak tree.
All in all, it’s been a good summer in the yard. So far. (Though if it gets much itchier, I may end up spending the rest of July and much of August hiding in the house.)
I can’t remember noticing, before, how the light changes as spring progresses.
The yard’s surfaces absorb and reflect, soften and sharpen the sun’s new angle.
Bees appear to fly through light, not air.
And birds strike silhouette poses, as if eager to be photographed.
Is it all in my head, a side effect of spring euphoria? Or is it happening where you live, too?
If you live in the southern hemisphere, is it happening in reverse? Light reverting back to air, flattening against fall’s advance as bees and birds prepare for winter?
When the pear tree’s pollinators finally arrived, they arrived in encouraging numbers. Hoverflies were the first wave, pretending to be bees.
A wave of true bees followed.
Happily, a few Question Mark butterflies drifted in near the end.
While the pear blooms lasted, the yard’s winter flock of yellow-rumped warblers divided their time between sipping nectar, foraging for insects, and sampling the last block of winter suet.
(As an aside, I spotted the following warbler yesterday and was confused by its complete lack of yellow feathers. I believe it is a yellow-rumped warbler, but I’ve never seen one that didn’t have at least a blush of yellow under its wings. Please comment if you can correct or confirm my identification!)
As the pear tree dropped its petals, we readied the yard for summer. We replaced damaged boards on the aging deck, uncovered the ginger lilies, and swept leaves out of the cactus bed. (The carpenter bees ignored us and concentrated on chasing each other. They also chased warblers, chickadees, crane flies, hoverflies, beetles, bees, leaves, dandelion fluff, and pear petals.)
The garden stores aren’t fully stocked yet, but we found most of the plants on our list: dill, fennel, milkweed, columbine, annual lantana, snapdragons, salvia, and cosmos.
Yesterday, this American Painted Lady butterfly made me wish we had planted more cosmos. (The yard’s 2015 butterfly sightings, so far, are a major improvement over last year’s butterfly drought, but they don’t begin to equal 2012’s impressive migration.)
The yard’s birds have been getting ready for summer, too. This little house wren doesn’t have a mate yet, but he clearly has a favorite house.
A pair of robins finished their nest last week and now spend most of their hours foraging.
(I am amazed by how many worms they find and eat each day.)
The robins aren’t the only efficient foragers in our area. A pair of osprey make regular passes over the yard, carrying fish. Yesterday I caught a few frames as one of the pair nearly dropped its lunch on the deck.
After a brief struggle, which lasted no more than two wingbeats, the osprey managed to subdue its lunch and flew on. What would happen if the fish managed to break free? Would the osprey land on my deck and reclaim its catch? (I’d probably drop my camera and break it, leaving me with no proof of why I dropped it…)
Over the years I’ve found many surprising things in the yard, but never a fish. Perhaps this summer?
Except, it’s not summer yet. Today the windows are closed against a surge of chill that moved in overnight and is forecasted to last through the next few days. Mother would have called it dogwood winter, expecting the dogwoods to bloom after the chill passed. Or blackberry winter, if the blackberries were due to bloom. I’m content to call it the end of winter.
The daffodils, all three of them, bloomed this week. As did the pear tree.
While it has plenty of bird visitors, the pear tree hasn’t seen its usual complement of pollinators.
The pear blooms usually draw bees and beetles by the hundreds, but many of the pollinators seem to be sleeping in this year. Yellow-rumped warblers are getting most of the nectar.
The pear tree’s pollinators may be sleeping in, but the carpenter bees are awake and active. Territorial males have claimed pockets of airspace near the house, fence, and deck. Their physiology must be wondrously efficient, because they patrol and defend their claims with seemingly endless vigor, never pausing to eat. They aren’t interested in nectar. They’re waiting for females to arrive.
My favorite news from the yard this week comes from the milkweed. It survived our long, cold winter, which means we might have more monarchs this year!
My favorite other news involves a publication note. My short story “Numbers” is now posted at The Blue Hour Magazine. This is my first fiction publication!
“Numbers” is the first short story I ever attempted. For nearly ten years I returned to it periodically, each time applying what I had learned since its last revision. Finally, in 2013, the story seemed to defy further revision. By then the opening had been entirely restructured and the word count cut by more than half. That year “Numbers” won Honorable Mention in the Frank Lawlor Memorial Fiction Prize at the Hampton Roads Writers’ Conference.
I let “Numbers” drift to the bottom of my to-do pile after its award, but in January of this year I decided to give the story one final edit and begin submitting it for publication. Then I selected a new practice manuscript from the archive, because I am not through learning. My journey with “Numbers” has reached a happy and satisfying conclusion, but my journey with writing will never end.
Rae Spencer 