Today is Saturday, August 7. Later this month, we will have lived in our house on the river for 16 years. Every year, at some point during this week, I can look up at the trees lining the ridge on the hill to our southwest and note that some of the leaves have a yellowish tinge to them.
It will be at least four more weeks before the foliage change is vibrantly noticeable on every road, in every garden, on every lawn. But the earliest signs of the summer's impending demise are here.
This morning we kayaked on the river in the early-morning calm. This picture is of a merganzer brigade that trooped by our boats on their way upstream. A little later, as we turned upstream ourselves, a family group of ducks, the young now fully feathered for their journey south, skimmed over the water in front of us.
The river is low and at peace with itself, soaking in all of the colors of late summer—the deeper greens, the full-bodied yellow of the goldenrods, the fragile blue of the last forget-me-nots.
In my gardens, the Queen's Ann's lace lifts its snowy heads, and the carrot tops (the direct descendents of Queen Ann) spread their green fronds further. When I brush by the sweet basil, the aroma from the pungent leaves makes my mouth water with thoughts of pesto in the middle of winter.
We have a ways to go but the first apples (a variety called State Fair) showed up at the farmers market today. The earth turns, and we sail on with Her to guide us.
No comments:
Post a Comment