Shining Light on the Prairie -- Autumn's Last Call

Meteorological winter officially arrives December 1st. The vernal equinox not until three weeks after that.

Our first snowfall of the year is expected Thursday, trick or treat. The first killing freeze of the season is due the following morning and voilà, winter.

So this year, both science and the pagans are wrong.

The prairie's been creeping toward the dark for a while now and competition over what food remained on it turned fierce well beforehand. Yet early this month, on any given sunny day we hosted a dozen or more butterflies and maybe a score of bees, each claiming their shrinking share of perennial richness.

On the prairie in October, that's not guaranteed.

Moths, crickets and other beasties worked the night shift. We were like the 24/7 diner that never closed. If you don't know about those, look it up.

Then the first light frost tip-toed in on little predawn feet. Everyone knew it, but all hint of winter was quick whisked away in the glory of a sparkling autumn morning, as if it'd never happened.

Following the second frost, our highest butterfly count plummeted to three.

Bees became few and those were down to the Carpenters, working awfully hard for precious little.

Monarchs became passing strangers and have since moved on altogether. This was a great year 'round these parts for monarchs. I don't pretend that means they're 'saved' or anything like it, but still.

Curiously, milkweed bugs chose last week to make babies. They clustered together in the afternoon sun for protection and warmth and on cloudy days, the bug family vanished in grey chill. Meanwhile, their home steadily degrades beneath them and all around.

Life can be hard to spot now, even on wetlands.

Bedazzled by hues of burnished gold speckled with stubborn green and brilliant blues all struck together in splendid light, we tend to forget that's the mask of death, if not necessarily despair.

Now to find life this side of the dark season, you have to really look. Sometimes it's protected from the frost by a canopy of waving grass, floating muted in constant shade.

Mostly, you've got to get all the way down to the roots. Where air and water meet and meld with wet earth, life gathers strength for what's to come.

During most any given day over these last few months, I simply stepped out my back door into the sun and was surrounded by riotous life. I already miss my little friends. I believe I'll see them again.

Soon enough, Prairie Smoke we planted last spring will rise. On the underside of incipient green leaves will be baby fireflies, pin prick miniatures of their summer selves.

Dark-eyed Juncos will pass through on their way north, even as they have this week headed south. Spiderwort will bring early bees. The wild seed lupine that's had a full year now to get comfortable will finally show its true colors. Purple coneflower that did admirably well after a violent division, will next year thrive even more.

Myriad butterflies, bees and wasps will follow and the constellation of life will be riotous again.

On the cusp of darkness at the edge of northern ice, so I choose to believe.

Onward then, through winter.