September came with a purpose and a declaration: summer’s hot and sultry air would be archived and September would take immediate control with cool nights and perfectly ideal afternoons. And suddenly the subtle transitions that mark the beginning of the end of seasonal growth— the nodding heads and drying leaves of ripened sunflower, the goldenrod ablaze in yellow, the seeds of milkweed adrift in the slightest breeze— came into perfect focus. The old dog saw it and spun in circles before sprinting off in no particular direction and for no apparent reason. She moves at a fraction of her former speed, but old bones can still be filled with the spirit of September.
It won’t last, this perfection, but it’s highly probable the doldrums of summer are gone and any bonafide heat from here out will be short lived. Meteorological fall has commenced, the days are growing shorter. Morning mist rises from the pond, its waters cooling, a fish flicks the surface. We weed the strawberries, perhaps for the last time. The potatoes are dug and put to cure in the root cellar. Migrating birds by the tens of millions pass overhead at night. A timeless energy flows as adaptive behaviors and responses initiate and a season of dormancy draws near.
The other day there were four young wood ducks on the pond. Today, there are two. On a trail through the woods we found a pile of feathers shining with the blue and green iridescence of woodies. Among the feathers were bones picked clean, and a string of whitewash to indicate precisely where an avian predator stood, there among the lobelia and tick seed of September, as energy was passed one to another.
I ran into an acquaintance at the coffee shop yesterday. She was bubbly, clearly happy as we exchanged pleasantries. Then the conversation shifted to world events, and in an instant her face fell to express dire concern. “It’s a bad dream that will not end and nothing will ever be the same,” she said. There is a great divide in our country and she gave no indication on which side she stood. These days it can be hard to tell.
September is neutral on the matter. She favors neither side, but simply fills her days with whatever magic she can muster. Over many millennia her routine has changed, and is changing now. Components of the atmosphere have shifted, species abundance and diversity have lessened, air and ocean currents behave differently, ice is disappearing. September considers it all, adjusts, and moves on. We take what she delivers. For the moment, under clear Midwestern skies, ideal temperatures, and an explosion of late summer flowers, all seems perfect. She’s good at glossing over the rough spots, initiating subtle changes in colors, introducing change. Late in the month she’ll tease us with hints of reds and yellows, then pass the pleasure to October.
She is like a protective parent, shielding us from the harsh realities of the world; like a wounded commander that never divulges her injuries lest the troops lose heart. She offers tough love, trusting us to see the error in our ways or face the consequences they bring. This she shares with her eleven siblings, documenting time and seasons cued by ancient rhythms. Over the eons they bore witness to an endless array of evolutionary change and adaptation, saw major setbacks, stood by as a superior intelligence developed and spread across the planet, plundering its resources. Errors were made and have led to great challenges that are not yet beyond repair.
There is still time. Not much. September will take note.
