Big Changes Ahead
Sep. 29th, 2022 11:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
denebalgedi777Well, it’s already Libra season and the equinox is past, so the autumn season has officially started, and this year the autumnal weather arrived at the same time as the astronomical season, not even off by a day. That’s rather uncommon around the Upper Midwest. It’s not uncommon to have a low-key summery pattern well past the equinox, and we had such weather right up to the equinox this year, but it turned on a dime after a large storm blew in the day after the equinox. I was on a long car trip that day and it was as hot and sunny as July. Only a few days later, the warnings of potential frost came to us. It’s notable, too, that this is perhaps the driest September on record in my region, surpassing even the very dry years of 2011 and 2012 that I well remember to this day.
With that abrupt change, it became clear that major changes are ahead. Since August there have been subtle signs. I watch the prairies closely since I’ve had the opportunity to do so firsthand. This came with the move to Wisconsin late last year. There are several restored prairies, including some right nearby. However, the general pattern in Wisconsin is that prairies are hemmed in by woods and hills. It’s not like western Minnesota or the Dakotas, where you can find vast grasslands stretching as far as the eye can see. Though once upon a time, treeless prairies did actually extend into Wisconsin and Illinois. As settlement increased, people grew skittish about burning and now heavy forests blanket the land.
The prairies have a notable shift as of late summer. Before, the bluebirds were a common sight, and they are a common sight still, but since that time they have been forming flocks of increasing size and staying closer to the residential areas than the open prairie. They will be southbound at some point, though no one knows the exact date, and they may leave by night. Possibly around the upcoming full moon, when they can fly by clear moonlight. The meadowlarks are now seen to be forming similar groups in the prairies themselves, and they too will return to the sunny southlands as soon as that mysterious hour of compulsion arrives for them. The song of the meadowlark is again heard plaintively in the meadows, mirroring the sounds of spring and early summer prior to completed breeding, but soon those meadows will be silent and sleeping for another year.
The most entertaining thing this year, relative to the prairies, was watching the succession of flowers throughout the year. It continued unabated from the time I returned home in early June all the way to the past few days, when the latest asters are in high bloom. It’s a process I’ve never had a chance to watch in such detail before. I used to visit places with restored prairies like Crow-Hassan Park Reserve in high summer to marvel at all the flowers on occasion, but there was nothing close by that would have allowed for season-long observation. Each part of the season is home to its own sets of species, and these in turn are followed by waves of others. The variety is such that I’ll have to turn to amateur botany in order to comprehend it all, but field experience is a great instructor.
The visitors to the yard continue to show who had successful years breeding, at least in our small corner of the township. At least one deer had fawns and they are occasional visitors. The turkeys here were moderately successful, raising a few pullets, but nothing like the flocks I have seen on occasion elsewhere. They also successfully bred in the nearby prairie, though they hide in the grass and it’s hard to tell just how well they did. The cardinals have fledgelings coming into the feeder just now, which seems rather late. As for songbirds in general, we seem to be approaching the time that only the species that stay the year around still remain. These include the daily visitors, such as chickadees and nuthatches (supposedly these were the only year-round species in the old days before bird feeding), blue jays, cardinals, crows, woodpeckers and finches.
There are signs of warbler migration in progress, though I’ve had but little time to watch it. I noticed them while walking in the woods yesterday. No other interesting visitors have made themselves known in recent times. The bear vanished without a trace in the summertime, and neither foxes nor predators of any kind are much in evidence. Save only, that is, for the birds of prey – I have heard great horned owls and barred owls calling in the darkness. Eagles have been seen again regularly also, especially around the river. These will all stay around for the winter, I believe. As will the waterfowl who forage in the farm fields after the harvest. There is at this time a permanent population of swans, ducks and geese who stay the winter in specific spots with open water, and forage all the day in the fields once they’ve been plowed, and so get fat from the waste corn.
Jupiter and Saturn are once again visible in the night sky, after an absence. I watched them many times last year through a scope in the autumn last year, living in the lake country. Now they are much farther apart than they were then, as Saturn is still in Aquarius and Jupiter is now in Aries. Nor are they drawing closer together, as both are now retrograde, along with several other planets, including Mercury. Mercury is in retrograde in Libra, and this retrograde event has been associated with considerable confusion and dissipation in my life. It usually has some effect, but this year it was especially strong, though not very negatively, just in a lightly troublesome and perhaps overly indulgent sort of way, as one might expect from the house of Venus. All the same, I am looking forward to its end, as I need to get on with some projects.
Though there is still much autumn ahead, including no doubt a ‘squaw winter’ and then an ‘Indian summer’, I always have the sense of the encroaching season of darkness before it arrives. One can’t really miss it in these parts; this is not a part of America that stays mild year-round. Instead, we suffer increasingly early darkness and increasingly harsh weather. Life begins to slow down, society to shut down a bit, and a more contemplative and solitary air takes over from the gregarious spirit of summer. It reminds me of the way of life of the Ojibways that perhaps we are unconsciously recreating: to form packs in the warm months and to split into atoms in the cold months. Times like these are congenial for meditation and the telling of stories, and those are topics that will be very much on my mind in the times to come.
With that abrupt change, it became clear that major changes are ahead. Since August there have been subtle signs. I watch the prairies closely since I’ve had the opportunity to do so firsthand. This came with the move to Wisconsin late last year. There are several restored prairies, including some right nearby. However, the general pattern in Wisconsin is that prairies are hemmed in by woods and hills. It’s not like western Minnesota or the Dakotas, where you can find vast grasslands stretching as far as the eye can see. Though once upon a time, treeless prairies did actually extend into Wisconsin and Illinois. As settlement increased, people grew skittish about burning and now heavy forests blanket the land.
The prairies have a notable shift as of late summer. Before, the bluebirds were a common sight, and they are a common sight still, but since that time they have been forming flocks of increasing size and staying closer to the residential areas than the open prairie. They will be southbound at some point, though no one knows the exact date, and they may leave by night. Possibly around the upcoming full moon, when they can fly by clear moonlight. The meadowlarks are now seen to be forming similar groups in the prairies themselves, and they too will return to the sunny southlands as soon as that mysterious hour of compulsion arrives for them. The song of the meadowlark is again heard plaintively in the meadows, mirroring the sounds of spring and early summer prior to completed breeding, but soon those meadows will be silent and sleeping for another year.
The most entertaining thing this year, relative to the prairies, was watching the succession of flowers throughout the year. It continued unabated from the time I returned home in early June all the way to the past few days, when the latest asters are in high bloom. It’s a process I’ve never had a chance to watch in such detail before. I used to visit places with restored prairies like Crow-Hassan Park Reserve in high summer to marvel at all the flowers on occasion, but there was nothing close by that would have allowed for season-long observation. Each part of the season is home to its own sets of species, and these in turn are followed by waves of others. The variety is such that I’ll have to turn to amateur botany in order to comprehend it all, but field experience is a great instructor.
The visitors to the yard continue to show who had successful years breeding, at least in our small corner of the township. At least one deer had fawns and they are occasional visitors. The turkeys here were moderately successful, raising a few pullets, but nothing like the flocks I have seen on occasion elsewhere. They also successfully bred in the nearby prairie, though they hide in the grass and it’s hard to tell just how well they did. The cardinals have fledgelings coming into the feeder just now, which seems rather late. As for songbirds in general, we seem to be approaching the time that only the species that stay the year around still remain. These include the daily visitors, such as chickadees and nuthatches (supposedly these were the only year-round species in the old days before bird feeding), blue jays, cardinals, crows, woodpeckers and finches.
There are signs of warbler migration in progress, though I’ve had but little time to watch it. I noticed them while walking in the woods yesterday. No other interesting visitors have made themselves known in recent times. The bear vanished without a trace in the summertime, and neither foxes nor predators of any kind are much in evidence. Save only, that is, for the birds of prey – I have heard great horned owls and barred owls calling in the darkness. Eagles have been seen again regularly also, especially around the river. These will all stay around for the winter, I believe. As will the waterfowl who forage in the farm fields after the harvest. There is at this time a permanent population of swans, ducks and geese who stay the winter in specific spots with open water, and forage all the day in the fields once they’ve been plowed, and so get fat from the waste corn.
Jupiter and Saturn are once again visible in the night sky, after an absence. I watched them many times last year through a scope in the autumn last year, living in the lake country. Now they are much farther apart than they were then, as Saturn is still in Aquarius and Jupiter is now in Aries. Nor are they drawing closer together, as both are now retrograde, along with several other planets, including Mercury. Mercury is in retrograde in Libra, and this retrograde event has been associated with considerable confusion and dissipation in my life. It usually has some effect, but this year it was especially strong, though not very negatively, just in a lightly troublesome and perhaps overly indulgent sort of way, as one might expect from the house of Venus. All the same, I am looking forward to its end, as I need to get on with some projects.
Though there is still much autumn ahead, including no doubt a ‘squaw winter’ and then an ‘Indian summer’, I always have the sense of the encroaching season of darkness before it arrives. One can’t really miss it in these parts; this is not a part of America that stays mild year-round. Instead, we suffer increasingly early darkness and increasingly harsh weather. Life begins to slow down, society to shut down a bit, and a more contemplative and solitary air takes over from the gregarious spirit of summer. It reminds me of the way of life of the Ojibways that perhaps we are unconsciously recreating: to form packs in the warm months and to split into atoms in the cold months. Times like these are congenial for meditation and the telling of stories, and those are topics that will be very much on my mind in the times to come.
