A cold front swept through the yard this week, carrying a hint of fall. My mood turned slightly melancholy as I rooted in my closet for sleeves and jeans, as flashes of orange and yellow caught my attention.
I’m certain that summer will return next week, as hot and humid as ever. But it’s green cloak is wearing thin, and it’s remaining months will be flecked with gold.
Earlier this week some parts of our area had overnight frost, then temperatures flared into the eighties. Bees and hover flies responded to the summer-like conditions with greatly increased activity, much to the delight of our Fourth of July rose.
Unfortunately, other insect activity also increased. The daisies and petunias were somewhat less delighted.
And this damselfly had to be rescued from an abandoned spider web.
While increasing insect activity gave me the opportunity to experiment with my camera’s macro functions, the yard’s quickening was visible on larger scales, as well. The cardinals’ nestlings fledged last week, which led to a few days of frantic visits to the feeder, followed by conspicuous absence as the little family moved on to explore other yards.
The squirrel kittens never returned, after that one brief visit, but the adult squirrels have been growing more playful and tolerant of each other as they approach the beginning of a new breeding season. Perhaps there will be more kittens, later this summer.
Perhaps there will be more of everything. Especially more long, lazy afternoons with bright pools of sunshine and breezy, open windows.
In a word, more serenity.
(During my spring flower frenzy, I bought the flowers in the above photo because their labels said “Serenity”. They are Serenity series African daisies, and I’ve planted them right beside the front door…)
This week our television flashed image after image of chaos, pain, and loss. I don’t have a personal connection to any of the Boston Marathon bomb victims, nor any of the Texas fertilizer plant explosion victims, and yet my shock and grief feel personal. More and more personal as time passes, as scenes of blood and smoke and flames give way to achingly poignant details about the dead and wounded.
Desperate to escape my growing sense of helplessness, I turn off the television and retreat into the yard, where I find a foraging cardinal, a pollen-dusted bee, and a pair of brave grackles. A hungry tufted titmouse, a half-grown rabbit, and a sleepy squirrel. They remind me that my journey is simultaneously important and insignificant, that I am both connected to and separate from the world. And their company feels like a glimpse of solace, a brief visitation of peace during a week defined by turmoil.
Our house and yard are under siege, completely surrounded by carpenter bees.
These large bees buzz around our eaves and patrol along the fence, staging vicious mid-air duels whenever a challenger enters their territory. Sometimes they crash against each other so heavily that both bees fall to the ground. Then, whichever bee recovers first hovers over the unfortunate loser and bashes it back to the ground every time it tries to take flight. These skirmishes last until the defeated bee manages to escape the disputed territory, or until the victor is distracted by another adversary.
Yesterday afternoon, I spent nearly an hour trying to take photos as one of the bees worked itself to exhaustion chasing the pear tree’s falling petals.
I failed miserably, ending up with frame after frame of motion-blurred bee.
But some of the motion blur was due to laughter. I’ve been feeling sharp stabs of pity, all week, as I watched our swarm of bees harass butterflies and crane flies, even a few hungry warblers. So I couldn’t help but laugh as this little fighter panted along, zipping back and forth in a frenzy of fury, trying to subdue a shower of sparkling petals.
The yard overslept this year and still seems a bit sluggish. Even so, every day brings new manifestations of spring.
Wednesday was so warm that the flowers wilted mid-day. As sunset neared, the irises and roses wanted watering, so I turned on the hose and started working my way through the beds. Before long, I had company.
I carried the hose to an area of the yard where water ponds easily and made them a nice puddle. They stayed until the water completely dried up, though the female duck enjoyed her visit more than the male.
He spent most of the time keeping watch, muttering quiet complaints as she explored the puddle.
Every year I find myself hoping the ducks will nest in one of our iris beds, but they never do. They prefer our neighbor’s azalea bed, and a quick glance at the sky shows why.
I doubt the osprey would bother a nesting duck, but I can’t blame the ducks for seeking denser cover. Perhaps I should go azalea shopping, this weekend…
Rae Spencer 