The green prime is passing. The trees begin to proclaim the change. Soon the leaves will be discarded, the grass will sere. But the miracle of life persists, the mysterious germ of growth and renewal that is the seed itself.
This is gossamer season. Dawn shimmers with spider filaments, proof that late hatches of spiderlings have the instinct to travel. On such gossamer strands tiny spiders have traveled into the Arctic and almost to the summits of the Himalayas. Soon milkweed pods will open with their silver floss.
This is the season of the harvest moon. With reasonably clear skies it will be a moonlit week, for the harvest moon is nothasty; ites early and stays late. There was a time when the busy farmer could return to the fields after supper and continue his harvest by moonlight. There’s still harvesting to be done, but much of it now centers on the kitchen rather than the barns. The last bountiful yieldes from the garden, the late sweet corn, the tomatoes, the root vegetables. The canning, the preserving, the freezing, the kitchen harvest in all its variety, reaches its peak.
First frostes in the night, a clear, scant-starred night when the moon is near its fullness. Ites without a whisper, quiet as thistle down, brushing the corner of a hillside garden. Dawnes and you see its path—the glistening leaf, the gle***ng stem, the limp, blackening garden vine.
Another night or two the frost walks the valleys in the moonlight. Then it goes back beyond the northern hills to wait a little longer, and the golden mildness of early autumnforts the land. A faint anise smell is on the air, goldenrod scent. The mistswirls and September shines through, the deep-blue sky of Sept