End of a Season

 

 

A

h, when to the heart of man

   Was it ever less than a treason

To go with the drift of things,

   To yield with a grace to reason,

And bow and accept the end

   Of a love or a season?

 

            Robert Frost was thinking about November when he wrote this poem, but, really, it fits perfectly into the end of August as well. Going back to school, moving inside, losing the long light of July—it’s all hard on the psyche.  Monday was my last day without school work so I decide to embrace the day.  We woke up a little after six and spent a few minutes gazing at the light  and the clouds moving across the dawn sky. The blankets and ground were damp, but we were buried under the blankets. The chickens had just been let out by their automatic door and the rabbit was contemplating the sunrise from the hutch. Mark got up, opened his door, and Mr B hopped out to graze. I could hear my neighbor greeting his granddaughter and laughing. Inside, the kittens were thrilled to see us—ants had found their food. We cleaned that up, moated their dish, and ate breakfast.

            After I finished the house chores, I gathered my backpack and notebook and headed down to Finley. On the west, over the coast range, ocean mist was pushing through. On the East, there was haze from fires across the Cascades. The road felt like it was right in the middle of the two elemental forces—which would win in the valley? The refuge was empty—Monday morning, right before school starts? All of town is empty. I was not surprised. I climbed the hill to the new pavilion, looked out over the valley, and headed back into the woods. The pool that holds newts in spring was dry. The trails are dusty. But it is quiet, and still, and a beautiful walk. After the last ice storm, so many thin oaks came down that they opened up the forest floor. I looked at what was coming back in the understory (a lot of blackberry, native and not, and Indian Plum). I  stopped to admire the meadow where we heard a huge swarm of bees last spring, peered through the trees at the beaver dam, and took about two hours for the entire loop.  My mind cleared as I walked.

            I came home, had a good lunch, read from a while, wrote a brief bit of testimony for the state on transit funding, and met with people to discuss Ward Five issues in the park, talking until the bats came out. The sky was clear—neither smoky or foggy. Maybe things balanced out in the high sky.  

I love the rhythm of these summer days when I barely go inside.  I do love my work; I love cozy nights by our fireplace; eating winter squash and greens rather than zucchini for dinner every night.  But, right now, my heart clings to summer.