LATE SEPTEMBER MUSINGS

Dragonflies zigzag the open lawn!!








Earth-bound August morning dew twinkles as July’s evening fireflies, falling out of the dark starry-night, twinkling only from one very special spot. Formed from star-filled sparkling nights, they are, perhaps, ephemeral starlight, not just diffracted sun rays, for sunny morning delight. Each drop seems a blinking rainbow in the morning light or perhaps a blinking Morse code from starships far away, revealing eternal truths for every one to see.


Drifting in a ray of morning sun, strands of a night-constructed cobweb death-trap float gently in the air, harmlessly passing by. I’ve seen a spider fall from a branch fifteen feet to the ground, attached to a silken bungee cord, formed so effortlessly. How can so much silk so quickly flow from such a tiny source? Truly does astound!!



The first hints of fall’s approach are seen in the early goldenrod. Goldenrod, glory of the fall, has kin that blooms late July and early August and is quite the family, friends of insects, butterflies, wasps, bees, bane of gardeners, farmers, livestock and many other fall bloomers. A stand of goldenrod, Solidago sp., covers dense areas with invasive, overlapping roots and rhizomes, choking out virtually everyone else.
Not eaten much by bugs or foragers, only stung by gall mites that disfigures but doesn’t really harm, Solidago canadensis is the worst offender. Makes one wonder why it hasn’t taken over the entire sun-drenched areas of the northeast. However, eventually a stand weakens, becomes shaded or invaded, a bad season may give reason, but someone moves in and changes the neighborhood.

Change is always King, variety the spice of life, to resort to an old cliché. Seems clichés become old because they speak such basic truths.

ATOP MT. WASHINGTON, NEW HAMPSHIRE

From meadow and valley fields, though open deciduous woods, then dense evergreens growing smaller as road’s ascent grows longer and higher and vistas begin to open. Then in a well- marked demarcation trees reach their end of line. Grasses, sedges, few small flowers too, barely clinging to mountain side, mosses rare and lichens, yellow bright, declare tree line is finally reached. Life becomes most difficult.

Winds whip, abrade with specks of rock, freezes thaw, then freeze again, well below the base-line norm. Botanic life is shorn of height, hiding from the furies might, between weather ravaged rock, sheltered in frost created cracks, within a pile of freeze created rocks.
Primitive and basic, life is lived in extreme, as from beginning it does seem. Water is life’s necessity, water is the enemy. While flowing moist it nourishes, wind-driven, frozen-dry discourages.









Imagination cannot comprehend the time that has been spent to construct and destruct such massive stuff. Fragile and easily destroyed we are, civilized but not too far, searching for a place to realize who we may be and Why. Reduced to insignificance we seek to find our magnificence, but there is no inevitable defense, for soon we all will be past tense. That is what unites us all, visitors from around the globe, to clamor to the top to find ourselves in awe.

















At the top of the northeast all the world comes to see, by foot, by rail, by car, truly an amazing sight. Many languages spoken, bound by a common bond, to stand atop Mt. Washington, to stand atop and stare. Stare to see forever, everywhere, a universal need, a universal desire. Many cluster a the top, the goal being reached, but few stop along the way to discover that the journey is the true goal, the peak but a brief reward, a trophy.













The mountain train has been climbing the this high peak forever, a hundred fifty years. The highest peak was much higher once, forever ago, two hundred million years, give or take a few. Forevers are indeed forever, forever will they seem. Each forever is forever in its own esteem. Each a cosmic blink depending how you think. On the macro-side the frost chunks the rock apart, forever freezes thaw and water slips between, on the micro-scale lichen does the same! One an act of physics, the other of chemistry.












Billowy white the clouds that float the sky become gray fog when with mountain peak collide.
Slow the rock does bend and fold, perception does lie, rock is not as solid as we’ve oft been told, for solid rock so old belies such tales told bold.


Browns and tans and greens and yellows, bright blooms , dull seeds, bright seeds, dull blooms, in the late summer the stress of living shows how great the toll extracted. The pain of reality, reversing one small patch of entropy, is obvious, yet so painful to see. Wonder what the point is really meant to be. Strive and die forever, but prepare to future face? Such is the faith of living, running the great race. For each life exists to better life for life yet to be.

MID-AUGUST THOUGHTS

There is no blue as blue
As the blue that is the sky,
Golden sunlight upon the air,
Blue scattered to your eye.





BODIE ISLAND LIGHTHOUSE
OUTER BANKS
NORTH CAROLINA




Collected caws of several crows that rang throughout the woods ending month of July, have been replaced by raucous rantings of blue jays when mid- August appears. Loud and boisterous, the world around here belongs to them, at least for this moment. Must be family obligations end sooner for old crows than it does for the jays.

As an aside, the goldfinches seem to be just pairing, still carefree as a summer breeze.

A few thin wisps of white dot the blue bright, drifting features across pure blue. Soon more wispy white floats thin and general haze begins. The blueness of the blue sky dulls as mid-morning air fills with moisture-laden vapors.

Plaintive lament of mourning dove, what caused your grief, such endless sadness compelled to proclaim for all to hear. What pray tell, what can be the source of so much remorse. Sadness sung when spring has begun and domestic chores can overwhelm, such sadness at the prospect may be understood, and now spring has gone and summer to reflect, surely some joy is to expect, but again your sad lament. Perhaps there is a sad thought that the task is now complete.

As mid-morning passes on towards noon, the jays are gone, all is silent, all is calm. Slight is leafy movement, quick is wispy flowing whiteness. Cool is becoming warm, and warm is the forecast, return of haze and hot and humid.


Since life’s excess is yet to be,
Morning light can not compete
With glory color that ends a day.

Filled with life’s breath so moist,
With brilliant blue fading gray,
Golden globe sets a glorious way.

From air that was crystal clear,
Life-filled, mid-summer’s day
Sun set sweet on crimson play.

RDS