Clove of Seasons

            In one of my favorite short stories, "The Scarlet Ibis," author James

Hurst describes this time of year as the "clove of seasons."  For some

reason that image has always appealed to me when I think of the changing

of seasons between summer and fall. 

         By late July or early August there comes a day I wake up, and it seems

the light has a yellow tinge to it. Apparently,this relates to the tilt

of the earth in relation to its rotation.  I know the seasonal split has

begun that day although the calendar says it is more than a month away.

>From that day on, I know that fall is creeping up and, like the

squirrels hoarding nuts, I must hoard and savor the last days of

summer. 

        As a girl, I hated the arrival of autumn.  I suppose this feeling had

something to do with school beginning and the end of the carefree days

of a childhood summer.  Even more, it meant that the days would shorten

and the green leaves of summer would soon fall, leaving stark branches

silhouetted against gray skies. 

        Time has a way of muting our strongest feelings, and mine have

certainly altered over the years.  By the end of July, I now look

forward to that first autumn tinged day that heralds the cusp of the

seasons.   Gardens have begun to look a bit ragged, and the wild flowers

seem to know they have only a short time yet to bloom.  Where they were

pastel and fragile only a few months earlier, now their hues deepen into

the brilliant yellows and oranges of sunflowers and gaillardia and the

deep purples of liatrice.

        Driving or walking in the country in late summer renders endless

surprises.  The plum thickets of early summer now offer a bounty of

brilliant red and magenta plums.  Off the grape vines growing in draws

and along creek banks dangle clusters of tiny, tart grapes that make the

best jellies and jams.  That is if humans can beat the birds to the

harvest. 

        While looking for plum thickets and wild grapes, I spot May's fawns,

now leggy adolescents. Their camouflage spots fade much as the color in

the leaves fades away this time of year.  In the same areas, I find

young pheasant and quail, awkward and gawky, as they race about gobbling

the goodies of summer.  Somehow, even though they haven't yet wintered,

they seem to know they must feed well before snows fly and ice coats

their favorite food plots.

        Even if I didn't see the spiders as they move inside looking to shelter

against the coming harsh weather, I would know they had arrived.  I find

their webs high on my walls where they hope to escape wintry blasts.  It

seems a huge wolf spider migration begins this time of year, and I find

scads of them in the garage and on the back porch where they hope to

gain entry.  They don't understand that I have no intention of providing

a hairy spider wintering ground.

        Though the nights will soon be long and tree branches bare and stark,

 I now relish this busy time.  It realize now the yellow tinged days aren'tan ending. 

  They provide a time of reflection, a time of preparation, atime to enjoy the end of

 one cycle and the beginning of another.