When the weather is really hot, a flock of cedar waxwings likes to fly through the spray of a fountain near here. They are no doubt feeding on the wing, but they look like they’re playing. The fountain, an aerator in a retention pond, shoots water fifteen feet or so up into the air, and the pond nestles in trees, with just enough open area for watching the birds.
Cedar waxwings sport fine plumage: the hint of a crest, a bandit mask, and a band of yellow at the end of their tails. They are social sorts, almost always seen in groups. Around this pond, they perch in the trees or on the fence and take turns making passes through the spray. What I remember most about the last time I saw them was the glory of yellow tail feathers fanned out and backlit against the mist.
The dog has figured out that I like to stop by the pond to watch the birds, to the point that he’ll suggest crossing to the pond side of the street as we approach. But it’s officially fall now. I don’t expect to find cedar waxwings playing in the fountain again till next summer.
At this point in September, it behooves one to be aware of what’s underfoot as, in the fall, things fall. This morning, Rascal and I picked our way around pears and apples and, to the extent we could, crabapples. There is no avoiding berries—there are so many of them. Nuts are coming down, too. Black walnuts with thick green husks. Hickory nuts, whose husks come away in cleanly cut sections. Acorns of red, pin, and burr oaks, all wearing different hats.
It’s also time now for evergreens to shed their old needles, a process especially noticeable in white pines. The needles they’re going to drop—up to fifty percent of all their needles–start turning color as summer tapers to an end, changing from green to gold and brown and a rich, warm russet. It is an annual pleasure to watch them ride down in the breeze and decorate the lawn.
This morning I saw fallen needles in a new way. We’ve had a lot of rain recently, and it was raining still as the dog and I walked. One puddle was so pretty when we passed it that I turned us around for a better look. There were white-pine needles in it, long and blue green with a smattering of yellow. The current of rainwater had pushed them together and arranged them in whorls. They looked like aquatic vegetation in a place with wave action–well worth the second look and cold hand.
Sue and Tesla and I went for a walk Tuesday afternoon, when the weather was fine. My favorite part, in addition to the company, was seeing how far we’d come from where we began. We’d traveled from park to park to park until we were out along the river north of town where the rowing clubs have their boathouses. In fact, a couple of strapping young men passed us carrying sweeps on their way to the water.
We went back a different way, crossing the river on the pedestrian-and-bike bridge above Argo Dam. Just above the dam. We let an oncoming cyclist finish his transit before we began ours; there isn’t enough room on the bridge for a cyclist and pedestrian to cross paths, except for a small area of détente in the middle of the river. Walking over the water as it roared over the dam below us was exhilarating for Sue and me. Tesla, as is her furry wont, took it all in stride.
Another sound thrilled my husband and me recently: people singing at church. There’s been no singing there since the beginning of the pandemic. In-person services without singing began a few weeks ago, and now we may once again make a joyful noise unto the Lord. Parishioners who had gathered before the service to sing favorite hymns with the choir on that first glad day were in full voice—such as it was—as my husband and I strolled up to the open doors of the church. “They sound terrible,” I whispered. “They’re wearing masks,” he whispered back. “They sound wonderful,” I amended. We were so happy to hear them. And we hustled inside to join our voices with theirs, masks and all.
24 September 2021