phenology wheel

August is the Sunday of Summer. And like a Sunday, we enjoy the vestiges of a rhythm we have become comfortable. August brings changes all around us, if you look.

The once majestic sunflowers hang their heads, tired. The verdant hillsides are suffused with a dullness. Morning birdsong comes later than usual. Queen Anne has traded her white lace for fields of purple ironweed and feathery goldenrod.

Hummingbirds are scarce, woolly bear caterpillars are on the march, and foggy mornings are frequent.

August gave us a grand show, though. The morning glory blossoms were at their deepest velvet. Electric pink milk thistle appeared in fields. Pokeweed berries ripened to the color of burgundy wine. Orange jewelweed dotted the landscape.

The air still wraps itself around us like a steamy wet blanket, but soon we’ll use a real one to ward off the chill. Windows will reopen and curtains will billow with cool breezes. Bedtime stories will come earlier and car headlights once again necessary for the morning commute.

When the sun shines in a September blue sky, it will illuminate mountains sprinkled with multicolored confetti against a backdrop of windswept white clouds. There will be hints of pepper and sassafras in the air. Squirrel’s nests will appear among the treetops, their height perhaps an indicator of the level of snow we might expect in winter.

I heard cicadas for the first time this summer on Saturday the 21st. According to folklore, six weeks from then will be our first frost here. I’ve marked the calendar for October 2nd, just to see.

There’s only a little while longer for short sleeves and flip-flops. Butterflies, bumblebees, and trees thick with leaves. For this Sunday of summer, I relish the remnants of this relaxed time before I turn the page and begin anew. 

The crickets felt it was their duty to warn everybody that summertime cannot last forever. Even on the most beautiful days in the whole year – the days when summer is changing into autumn – the crickets spread the rumour of sadness and change.”

E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web

It may have been the wettest July on record, at least in nearby Huntington, WV, but we still had plenty of hot and sunshiny days.

The Mimosa tree blooms are still fragrant and plentiful. The delicate white of Queen Anne’s Lace and the periwinkle blue of Chicory adorn the roadsides. Dragonflies and Swallowtails flit and feed along with what so far has been only female hummingbirds at the wild trumpet vine and Stick Verbena flowers.

The morning glories are a month behind their usual domination of the patio trellis and so far only deep purple blooms dot the green wall of heart-shaped leaves.

Most mornings at exactly 5:30, the first bird to shatter the night’s silence is a House Wren I named Fifty Cent. The bird book says they weigh about as much as two quarters, so… 

For fun, I play an audio recording of a House Wren and watch with amusement as he warbles and scolds in response. He built a nest and found a mate. But from what I’ve read, this is probably just one of his multiple families.

A few of the sunflowers have bloomed, some with petals growing in the centers of the heads, but they still serve their purpose; the bees don’t seem to mind their odd appearance. One monster sunflower has reached a height just past the gutter. Its head seeks the setting sun on the opposite side of the house, even though the bloom has yet to open.

The full buck moon this month was a baby aspirin orange when it first appeared which led to a new nickname: pumpkin moon. Is it wrong to be thinking about pumpkins in July? I see patches of the brilliant orange and yellow leaves of the Staghorn Sumac nestled among a sea of green. A harbinger of Autumn, a mere seven weeks away.

But for now, today I will notice and enjoy the sultry air, the dance of the bats and lightning bugs at dusk and dawn, the fiery sunsets, bare feet on grass and in puddles, and flower heads that magically move under the weight of bumblebees and butterflies. 

“Woods are filled with the music of birds, and all nature is laughing under the glorious influence of Summer.” — Charles Lanham, Author, Artist, Librarian

Well done, July. 👏🏻

Bugs, birds, and bunnies are stars of the show

June unfolded with hanging wisteria, feral roadside tiger lilies, and mimosa trees laden with pink powder puffs. Little yellows and common blue butterflies flit from coneflower to verbena to dianthus.

This is the time of abundant sweet strawberries, so June’s full moon came to be known as the Strawberry Moon by the Algonquin tribes.

June also hosts the longest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere, also known as the summer solstice, when the sun is directly over the Tropic of Cancer. This day marks the beginning of the gradual decrease of daylight. The climax in the three-act structure of our summer narrative.

Every workday morning my husband drives down our little rural road and if he sees four or more rabbits, he calls me to report the count. We’ve seen as many as eight bunnies dive into the safety of the brush from the asphalt as we make our way to town. 

The red-winged blackbird is plentiful and I see them among the cattails in the marshy areas and near the river where the mayflies are still swarming. In the 14 years here, this is the first time I’ve seen mayflies in July.

At the end of the month we saw a juvenile red-tailed hawk unsuccessfully attack a snapping turtle which was creeping across the road. We’ve watched with amusement as the clumsy hawk bumps into limbs, flounders, and lands on the ground. It’s as if it “picks up its skirts” and with care, long stride lunges on its lily white legs across the grass for a few feet before it stretches its wings, takes flight and soars over the river.

The month held oven heated air, humidity, and a few cooling thunderstorms. Magnificent, moody sunsets. Bats swooping for a meal at dusk. Evenings into nights sprinkled with fireflies floating and blinking above the dewy grass.

“Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.” —Shakespeare

See you next year, June.