Shining Light on the Prairie - Summer's End

Summer's officially over, the weatherman says so.

While it's true we might hang our hats on celestial events yet in the offing, this year above all years I'm going with science. And though on general principles I never wish time away, the faster we push through the dark season, the sooner we'll know where we're at and who we'll be on the other side.

Claire Hintz up at Elsewhere Farms recently posted that this year she harvested her pears two weeks earlier than last. That about reflects the state of things on the prairie, too.

Even had I not spent these last months in relative sequestration watching light change on a daily basis, when the wind sends a rustle through the tallgrass and it crinkles the evening voice of trees, that seals the deal no matter what we might otherwise choose to believe.

Already well into the pandemic, this spring stayed resolutely cold and wet, right until it didn't. People around here like to complain We went straight from winter into summer with no spring between, but they're mistaken.

What they really mean is that spring pretty well sucked. This year more than most, eh?

Middle of May, the world turned hot and in June the sun beat down hard upon the land. By August, the land grew parched. I've been thankful everyday for our drought resistant native plants. As have the myriad butterflies, bees and other critters that as soon as it grew hot, showed up in droves.

Each year after a cold miserable winter leaches well into what we'd like to think of as spring, I fret over the life we host. Then, there it all is. This summer that included not one but two litters of baby rabbits, the first birthed in the same garden box as the Great Black Wasps bring their young to feast.

In 2020 I'll not stand in awe amidst northern wilderness, nor catch Superior on the breeze. Unless I convince myself a stiff north wind carries its distinctive freshwater scent all the hundreds of miles down to the prairie, which I sometimes do.

Instead I've looked for recompense on prairie remnants, oak savannas and the backyard garden. The relationship with my native black dirt's stronger and more intimate now than at any time since I was a kid who once thought it might be a good idea to eat some.

The first thing I noticed when the plaque hit this spring was that the world fell quiet. The next thing I noticed was that nothing changed, really. With each passing day, more life returned to the land. As light climbed higher into the sky, summer unfolded just as it would have, pandemic or no.

Now we've entered meteorological autumn. There's no turning back. There's never any turning back.

A few of the local trees are giving it up already. I suppose they're stressed for lack of rain. Crickets sing in the morning brightness. Cicadas all day, desperate to make hay. Goldfinches tear at the bones of Echinacea. The last honeysuckle blossoms falter. Hummingbirds take jealous advantage even as they do. From sunrise to sunset, bees rake up whatever's left that they can find.

None of these creatures need be told it's high time they adapt to changing conditions. How is it so many of us do?

Autumn's long been my favorite season, from back when as a melancholic teen I wallowed in adolescent despair. As a young adult I embraced Superior and year upon year upon year of camping in the northwoods back when late September was the problematic edge of winter made me a lifer.

Diving deep into the golden season along Superior has always made my winters easier to take. This year consigned to the prairie, it's hard to resist rushing through autumn so to endure the inevitable cold as ever, then maybe finding out come spring that the world's not changed overmuch after all.

As able, I'll continue watching the light change day by day. Sometimes even capturing near perfect moments of that, as it reveals life. Through fair weather and foul, good times, hard times and all seasons between, it seems the thing to do.

Not a bad way to live. Or a bad way to go either, so best get it while we can.

Onward.