Sep 18, 2000The Late SummerAh yes, reassembly.I'm slowly returning to what passes for equilibrium, but there's precious little Summer left to piece back together. August took with it most of Summer's hopes. One fine day that I wrote of a month ago turned out to be the only one falling on a weekend during the entire month. Last year: drought, and the "hottest summer on record". This year: persistent rain, and consistently below average temperatures. I suppose "average" is the operative word. Put the two years together, average them out, and all looks perfectly normal. That's not much consolation when you have to live with the particulars of time and place. Still, persistence does pay off. I've been in the right place at the right time to have seen most of the season's best days, as well as some less pleasant. I will not, however, call any of them bad days. That's for psychological projection. I'm trying, rather, to receive. My only projection is the project you are currently reading. I receive signs that augur Autumn. The sunlit hours are contracting; the rays arrive at a declining angle, draping morning and evening with a golden haze. Change is in the air. Fall begins on Friday, and many a year I would be glad, wiping the grimy sweat from my brow, welcoming a crisp new wind from the North. But not so now, at least not quite yet. Let me float for one more moment on the receding sea of Summer. And if Summer is an Ocean, Autumn is a froth of surf that crashes on the Winter shore. I lost my focus, but that's what Summer's for. Unfocused, or focusing too closely, one knows not what one sees, nor who sees you. Girls were observed, sunbathing topless on the margin of the Meadow. I didn't mean to look at them, but when you're looking closely you sometimes see things not meant for your discernment. I suppose these young women knew what they were risking, but I couldn't help feeling a twinge of embarrassment. I'm not sure if it was on their behalf, or mine. Nevertheless, I kept looking. A similar feeling arises when I look into a bird's nest. There is something naked and fragile about the chicks, all straining necks and gaping beaks. Wanting, asking, waiting, till finally they receive… what? Regurgitated bugs and worms. An easy life, at first, but they must learn to find their own food. A pair of Green Herons nested successfully in a Pin Oak along the upper lobe of the Lake. The little drama was one of Summer's highlights. One egg failed to hatch, but four fuzzy gray balls did emerge, growing faster than we, with our long childhood, can fathom. Now they have left the nest, and, like the parents they will never know again, they have dispersed. The same for Mocking Birds, and Wrens, Catbirds, Cardinals, Woodpeckers, and others that I may have missed. As for the Swans, four of five cygnets survived. Bigger than their parents now, but still gray, they remain, patrolling the Lake as a family. They will not linger through the Winter. I will stay. When the crisp breeze turns bitter, I will be here. I love the land no less in diminution. Perhaps I love it more. But first, Fall brings the magic of transition. Oh, Summer moves, but beneath the level of perception, or else we are distracted, or just ignore it, as if the sun were riding high forever. Just so, Winter seems interminable and static. The seasonal poles, states of extreme, protest that they are everything, no in-between, no mixed-up way of being. But the months that blur and blend bring the wisdom of change, connecting where we've been, with where we'll end. Perhaps it’s time to talk of endings. Much of the vegetation seems tired, withering early, despite, or maybe because of, the wet Summer. Many of the low lying Willows have a fungal disease, bred of the damp conditions. Usually, their green lingers longest of all the trees, but now they are sparse, brown and shriveled. They are ready to end this cycle, rest, and try again. But not all are afflicted. At the West end of the Pool, a young Willow appears healthy, and next to it, a little Hackberry. These trees have had a better Summer than some, their first in sunshine. They had been shaded by a female Ailanthus, but it fell last year, and now they are released from suppression. The fast growing Willow will surely overtop the twisted Hackberry, in a rush to replace its ever falling fellows. The fall of one tree is the opportunity for another’s rise. Another cycle. Meanwhile, under the woodland eaves, Time seems confused. Thinning foliage allows late blossoms to return to the forest floor. Wood Aster abounds, the white clusters at once a reminder of Spring’s flowers, and a mirage of snows to come. Today remains a day in Summer, but not for long. . |
return to: Mr. Wilson's Arboretum |
"... Mr. Wilson's Arboretum - ... Wanting, asking, waiting, till finally they receive… what ... growing faster than we, with our long childhood, can ... As for the Swans, four of five cygnets survived ... ..." |