Image Essay -- Late Bloomers

This year, autumn doesn't know whether it's coming or going.

North on the Gogebic Range, fall color is about peaked. Presently it's 42°F, with rain, fog and mist accompanied by a breeze from the northeast. You can bet the clouds have fallen from the sky and are kissing the Bessemer bluffs into hazy submission.

Meanwhile, the prairie basks in summertime temperatures and humidity, thrown from the south on a stiff breeze. Thunderstorms threaten.

Last week, the weather was typical of November. Yesterday and today, it's July again. They say we're due more November, sometime tomorrow night.

If it'll ever be October, I can't guess. Maybe this year we'll just skip it. At least then I'll not be another year older.

I thought to take the canoe out but decided during the dark of this morning I'd rather chase lean, hungry fish next April in the chill and damp than fight the sun, heat and wind on this weird autumn day. One shouldn't put off time on the water I know, but occasionally it's best to just go with the odds. Rest assured, fish know how late the year is.

Still, encouraged by spates of unseasonably warm days, on our little patch of prairie life hangs tough.

At an easy glance it might even be mistaken for spring. The sort of thing one looks forward to, when praying to survive the shank of a long winter.

But the hard truth is, life's just offering a pretty little sigh while it still can, while otherwise giving up the ghost. The season's first frost warnings are already posted.

Being something of a late bloomer myself, I get it.