The days grow shorter, the sunshine weaker and more oblique. On a nice day, there may be an hour or so either side of noon that’s warm. But soon, on most days, even that brief respite will be just a memory. This point in the season always catches me off-guard; I keep leaving the house in my summer clothes, not quite able to grasp how much time has slipped away. By the time I make it to my car, I realize my error and trot back inside for another layer.
Where I live in Oak Bluffs, we still haven’t experienced the first hard frost, an event that will produce dramatic change in the natural world when it does occur. Countless insects, hanging onto life before that frost, won’t wake up the next morning. Plants hanging tenaciously onto their leaves will finally let go, recognizing the futility of trying to grow when light is scarce and water is freezing.
For now, though, I still work hard, and with some measure of success, to find relics of summer. In a corner of the fence, sheltered from the wind and open to the midday sun, a few flies can often be found as they bask. Likewise, the shingles on the south side of our house soak up the sun, and perhaps a paper wasp perches there, enjoying the warmth. Over the years, I’ve grown resourceful, learning tricks to find lingering insects, building a roster of spots to check because I know they represent patches of warmth in a dying landscape.
The goldenrods that just a month ago were in full bloom in my yard have mostly gone to seed, yellow flowers morphed into brownish tufts of seeds, and then even those are gone as the wind plucks them away. One single flower head is still yellow, though; I don’t know why it’s still blooming so late in the season, but I keep a close eye on it. It’s the only game in town, and any bee that is still alive in the yard will find it.
And to my amazement, there are still bees around to give those last blossoms a try. It’s almost always a male at this point, clinging to a flower, still optimistic, but too tired and cold to move. Sometimes I’ll nudge him onto my fingertip, holding him up for a closer look while he relishes the warmth that my finger provides. But there’s nothing I can do for him; after a good look and a moment of appreciation, I ease him back onto the flower and hope he enjoys his last few days or hours of life.
Grasshoppers and katydids are still easy to find. But unlike earlier in the year, when I could hear or see dozens of species, now it’s only a couple of the most cold-hardy types that persist. And even they are senescent, their coloration muted and running toward brown, their behavior sluggish, their bodies diminished by lost legs and broken antennae.
The calls of crickets have grown sparse, the loud chorus of early September eroded down to scattered solos. And the quality of those remaining songs have changed, now slowed, muted, and unemphatic.
Many of the birds that nested in our yard are still here: the chickadees, now in a small but noisily gregarious flock; the cardinals, the song sparrows, the blue jays that ignored me all summer but now start demanding handouts, remembering the largesse I dispensed last winter. But such solicitations aside, our birds are mostly secretive now, conserving energy rather than claiming territories or boasting of their suitability as mates. And many other species –– the catbirds, the grackles, the American robins –– are long gone, headed south to the land of milder winters.
The approach of winter isn’t exactly a sad time for me. I know that the wildlife I love is still out there, readying itself for the coming spring even as it braces for the winter that lies in the way. And I know that winter brings its own pleasures for a naturalist: sea ducks visiting from their high-latitude breeding grounds, for example, or the small but interesting suite of insects, like the winter moth and winter crane fly, that have evolved life histories centered on the winter months.
But late autumn is still a time of transition, marked by the deaths of countless animals that have lived their lives and served their purposes. It’s a moment of countless small losses for me, even as I look ahead, and a time that reminds me that in nature, the only constant is that nothing is constant.
