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Sometimes, you just have to be at the right place at the right time to witness the amazing. For me, it was a recent experience of seeing a mysterious insect on the goose coop as I was preparing to perform daily maintenance. I’m now familiar with many of the bugs and insects that live here on the farm, but this one was strange…and I like the strange because it means an opportunity to learn. And I am, if nothing else, a voracious learner.
One morning, as I filled one of several five gallon buckets for the geese, I noticed a sunflower seed spinning around and around in the eddy created by the water. We feed black oil sunflower seeds as treats to the poultry, so seeing one in a bucket is not usually cause for alarm. Until you realize that it’s not a seed at all.
For this momentous post, I decided that I would focus on a creature that is often maligned (mostly by gardeners), but that I find immensely fascinating. It’s an animal that reminds me of two important things: that (1) there is an absolutely amazing world of tiny plants, animals, and other matter that is overlooked by people and (2) sometimes, we need to slow down and enjoy the wonders of the world around us – or even our own inner world – at a snail’s pace.
Living in the “country”, I’m surrounded by sounds, most of them natural and enjoyable (cattle trucks and vehicles missing mufflers are notable exceptions). In fact, sometimes I need to take a moment to soak in those wonderful sounds and let the gratitude that there are still song birds to be heard suffuse me.
Fall has arrived here in my “neck of the woods”. Despite the last couple of days’ pleasantly warm temperatures and sunny skies, the appearance of summer is belied by the thick carpet of leaves, pine needles, and cones that that now blankets the grass out front. Fall cannot be denied.
And yet, as I open the windows in the house to let in the breeze and I hear the birds singing, it’s easy to forget – if for but a moment – that it really shouldn’t be this warm here right now. That the stink bugs and flies should be gone, and that frost on the grass shouldn’t be a surprise.
Even our flock of molting chickens seem pleased with the upturn in temperatures, laying more eggs. Who’s going to complain about that?
Many of the wild birds, whose presence we enjoyed all summer, have migrated. Just the doves, some finches, nuthatches, titmice, a few blackbirds (cowbirds, perhaps), a few species of woodpeckers, and the ever-present blue jays still visit the feeders. The smaller woodpeckers seem to prefer the suet that we’ve added to the complement of tube feeders. It’s been several weeks since I’ve seen a hummingbird, but we still put a feeder out with fresh nectar, just in case a migrating straggler comes by.
The poplar tree, whence the heart-shaped leaf came, is nearly naked after the weeken’s winds stripped its leaves. I will miss its broad, green leaves and the unusual, spiky flowers that appear in the spring. Finding a little “gift” of this sort seems as though the tree is telling me that despite how it may appear that the transformation occurring now is negative, it’s really not; instead, it’s a reminder of the transitional nature of life, that it’s part of a natural (and necessary) cycle, and we’re moving into a time of quiet strength-gathering. And what may seem “dead” during winter’s austerity is merely dormant, just waiting for the signal to burst forth in all its fresh, vigorous brilliance.
I liked the juxtaposition of the seeds and the fallen leaf in the haiku because it seemed to represent the mixed feelings that arise (at least in me) at this time of year. It feels like the year – and Nature – is winding down, divesting of its earlier finery, and preparing for the solemnity of winter. We can mourn the departure of summer’s visitors – the jeweled hummingbirds, the ethereally gorgeous butterflies – and still celebrate the gifts of this season, as well as each of the others. May you discover the joys of this season, wherever you are.
