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Notes of the Backyard
Naturalist
© 1997 Leonard
Smith
October
We are
well into October and though there has been no
frost it is autumn. The afternoon sun is warm and
long rays of light drift down through the trees.
The last of the Monarch butterflies sip nectar
from ragged blooms of blanketflower. There are
now more seed heads than flowers. The Monarchs
are joined by other, smaller butterflies. The
ever-present Cabbage Whites flit among the mints.
Stopping to search columns of purple flowers they
gently move from flower to flower, their wings
slowly open, then close. Less noticeable, the
very small butterflies, Checkerspots, Blues and
Hairstreaks search for flowers among the plants
still blooming.
In the
trees a small flock of Chickadees search about
the limbs for insects. Their ever-cheerful call,
chick-a-dee-dee-dee, carries down across the
yard. Somewhere off in the distance a bluejay
calls to his kin. There he goes now, leaping from
the top of an old elm he shrieks as he flies out
to meet a comrade-in-mischief. The air is quiet.
A rustling of leaves in a gentle breeze and that
is all, gone are the birds of summer.
There are
no grackles in the pines, streaks of shiny black
as they fly from perch to perch in search of
nesting material. They were here in April
strutting across the yard, purple heads and
yellow eye alert. Like royalty they preened and
called to each other. In late afternoon they come
now in large, rowdy flocks to rest in trees till
dawn, then off again as they move south. Gone are
the swifts from my chimney; these small sooty
birds I heard in the basement, in the chimney
base where they raised their young; these same
swifts who patrolled the sky for bugs, gone for
yet another year, gone to South America. Gone too
are the Western Kingbirds, tyrants and dictators
who, with raucous calls, attacked the cats in the
yard. It is quiet now at dawn, no songs to greet
the morning sun. The nests are empty and broods
of young birds have joined their elders. Leaving
us, they take their song and the autumn days
begin as though in mourning, thoughtful, quiet
moments.
The
insects are fewer now too. On the lawn and in
bushes spiders spread sheets of silk and weave
webs to capture and hold their prey. Quietly they
wait on leaves and in silken tunnels for the
twitching of gossamer strands, the dinner bell
rings. Off in some sheltered spot a cricket tunes
his fiddle, tries a few notes, hears no reply and
goes silent.
Paper
wasps tap around the eaves, searching for hiding
places and nest sites. Before they die they must
provide for the future of their kind. They enter
our homes through open doors, we chase them with
swatters. They have no future, swatted down they
die with stingers stabbing at the air.
The
insects, the smallest and most numerous of
creatures must face the rigors of life and death
as we do and yet they go unnoticed for the most
part. We are aware of the annoying mosquitoes,
the biting flies and those insects we call pests.
The ones that eat our crops and spread disease we
spray and kill diligently. We think they are all
the same and yet insects make up the largest
amount of life on this planet. Ants alone account
for 10% of the weight of all life. Everywhere we
go there are ants and everywhere ants go there is
life.
Quietly
the trees prepare for the coming winter. Some
time ago, in the warmth of summer they set the
bud of next year's leaf at the base of this
year's leaf and now the tree ceases to grow, the
changing season triggers a new cycle. Chlorophyll
production has stopped and new, bright colors,
hidden by summer green come out as nature puts on
its finest garb. Gowns of gold drape the
mulberries. Elegant streamers of woodbine grace
the junipers, leaves in brilliant burgundy,
copper and yellow stream down from vines heavy
with clusters of purple fruit. The gentle breeze
moves among the leaves. Twitching, a few fall,
drift quietly to the ground where insect and
fungus will feed on them, reduce them to
essential elements in the mother earth.
October
is the ending of a season, a time to gather the
remaining harvest of a summer's work and also
time to reflect on the world we live in. We have
been taught we dominate this world, all other
creatures are here for us. And yet, the industry
of the ant, the world-wandering flight of the
swallows, the habit of weeds to spread, are as
important, as vital to life as is anything we do.
Everything we touch is connected to something
else. The grub who crawls under the bark feeds
the woodpecker who searches for it. The
caterpillar who eats the leaf becomes the
butterfly who graces the autumn flower. The
mosquito that bites us also feeds the swift of
the summer sky.
October
is here for us to rest, to reflect, to prepare
for the coming rigors and cold of winter. The
days are shorter and on long cool nights the
brilliant stars glow brightly in the deep onyx of
the night sky. The autumn moon sends fingers of
light down through trees and across the fields,
touching me, touching you.
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