It's
that time of year again at the Acres--autumn. The goldenrod has faded
for the most part. The purple (and a dab of pink) New England asters
have taken over the wild area with some help from a million white heath
asters. Saturday the place sounded like a honey bee convention. I
could hear the buzz before I even got onto the paths. It's not a time
to trod the wild if you are afraid of stingers.
I love the sound. I have no idea where they all come from--literally
thousands--but I love them. Yet they come and they go. Emptied the
flowers, I guess. Nary a buzz today, though it was later in the evening
when I traversed the loveliness. The burning bushes are lighting up as
well. The trees are lingering behind somewhat this year--at least out
here at the Acres. I've planted everything I plan to plant; moved
everything I planned to move. All that's left is to help the phlox
spread their beauty when the time comes.
I am also under attack as
always. When I walk to my car in the morning, I can hear the walnut
trees practicing fuselage after fuselage. They're just waiting for a
chance to let me have it when I wander by. When I get my planet, they
will not exist--or else they'll come in Snickers bars.
My red-winged
friends are visiting as they do each fall by the zillions. I don't
know what it is about my pond and bog, but it's a blackbird hotel each
and every late September into October. My pond sings all day long. And
the nearby trees. And, ah, the whirr of wings and the thousand flashes
of red when I "accidentally" send them skyward from the reeds. Worth
the Audubon guilt trip.
Cool, colorful, "dangerous," exquisite. All synonyms for the Acres in autumn.
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