A Winter Discontent

I have to admit, it's getting rather difficult to find pretty things on the Greenway lately. Everything is shades of washed-out brown, with dry stems swept to the ground by wind, snow and rain. Even the birds are drably colored (the occasional cardinal notwithstanding): chickadees and juncos in shades of gray and white, Canada geese in black and tan, winter goldfinches in a dirty olive.

The verdant leaves and bright flowers are long gone. The most vivid colors at the moment, sadly, seem to be the poo bags tossed into the Greenway basins and tree branches by thoughtless dog owners. It is a time ripe for despair, long months of cold winter ahead before the first brave botanical pioneers reappear in spring.

It helps to remind myself that what was, will be again. Spring follows winter as inevitably as day follows night. I look out over the seemingly lifeless land and remember the waves of goldenrod not too long ago, and the butterfly weed before that.

I think of the millions of seeds produced on the Greenway last summer, and wonder how many found their way to a hospitable place where they can put down roots and spend coming years blooming and producing seeds of their own. I imagine roots below even now storing energy and preparing for the day the sun's rays warm the ground and lengthen the days enough to prompt the first tender shoot to burst through crumbling soil.

Until then, I learn to, if not relish the crisp air freezing my eyeballs in the pre-dawn gloom, at least appreciate the contrast a few short months can make. To see the tiny shards of frost on the grass glittering in the moonlight and realize such beauty would be impossible in the comfort of summer.

Supermoon Afternoon

I was told there would be a supermoon.* 

To be fair, it is still an hour until moonrise, if the internet is to be believed. To the north and east are thin clouds, ruffled like a newly-trimmed wire-coated terrier. Directly above they are wispy, clumps of milkweed fluff trailing across the sky. In the west are big, low blankets gentling the setting sun.

 

The sweet songs of summer have given way to a rasping, guttural autumn.  Over the rustling leaves can be heard barking squirrels, the impatient  chirr! of a red-bellied woodpecker, buzzing chickadee-dee-dees and in the distance the chock-chock of a pheasant. 

I am stopped along the north-south spine of the Greenway by rhythmic footsteps a few meters off in the dry grass, maybe even in the dry cornfield opposite. It sounds for all the world like a person creeping along, trying to be stealthy even though every step carries through the chilly air. What could be making such loud, plodding steps? The slow, intermittent nature calls to mind a predator. Coyote? Cat? Whatever it is, it is stealthy enough for though I continue to hear the steps I don't see so much as a slight wavering of dry stems and leaves to mark its passage.

I have been visiting the Greenway weekly through three seasons now, documenting the changing plant and animal life and learning its story. I confess I am worried what winter will bring, that much of the interest has been bled out of the Greenway along with its color. But every week so far this November have happily found something new, something different and beautiful to catch my eye. I may need to slow down a bit more, follow the light or find a new perspective.  But we all go through somewhat dreary periods, and we would be well advised to continue to find what wonder we can, and know that spring will always come again. 

*The chill drove me away just as the fabled supermoon was rising; it peeked above the horizon briefly before hiding itself behind the low clouds that had moved in.