The wheel of the year rolls deeper into the quiet time. The oak trees have let go and the rusty canopy settles on the sleepy grass.
The hardy sorrel shares the last of fresh greens. Now is the harvest of thyme. Now comes the blanket of straw over the berries. Cover them with an adieu until warmer days return.
The feeder and suet cages are filled. The wood nuthatch, cardinal and blue jays return to their winter camp under the hydrangea. The sparrows, finch, chickadees, and juncos fuss and scratch. It’s our life here in this quiet place.
The skies have been kind. The sun rides lower and lower on the horizon. The field mice scurry to their winter nest. The tranquil days of November pass one by one. The dried lovage and sage season the stew. All is well. All is done.
@FrancesAnnWychorski2015
Photo credits to @Josiah van Egmond 2013
“I rejoice that there are owls. Let them do the idiotic and maniacal hooting for men. It is a sound admirably suited to swamps and twilight woods which no day illustrates, suggesting a vast and undeveloped nature which men have not recognized. They represent the stark twilight and unsatisfied thoughts which all have. All day the sun has shown on the surface of some savage swamp, where the double spruce stands hung with lichens, and small hawks circulate above, and the chickadee lisps amid the evergreens, and the partridge and rabbit skulk beneath; and now a more dismal and fitting day dawns, and a different race of creatures awakes to express the meaning of Nature there.”
The waning moon watches the revelers’ scurry about calling for tricks or treats
LuceStellare 