In late August, our nights have grown very cool and our early mornings forecast the melancholy of autumn to me. This morning, I used to be exterior earlier than the solar got here up aspiring to say my morning workplace exterior, within the daybreak. I by no means mentioned the workplace.
As a substitute, I listened. And could not cease listening to this tiny nook of God’s creation get up.
The distinct Morse code like chirping of the 10-15 hummingbirds who come to drink the nectar of the flowers and the nectar within the four feeders all through the landscaped part of our entrance yard welcomed me. These tiny creatures with their arabesque flights had been the one sound within the silent world of the excessive desert for the primary 20 minutes whereas I watched the solar slowly heat the air. They hover proper in entrance of me at times as if to share within the pleasure of our sharing the identical air, the identical life. Most of them will die inside their first 12 months of life; they appear unconcerned.
After which, as if in an intentional order, appeared the sparrows, adopted by different birds I acknowledged however couldn’t title. When the solar was fully up got here the Pinion Jays, loud raucous birds flying in flocks of 30-40. Their cries had been a cacophony till their chief directed them again as much as the mountains and silence reigned as soon as once more.
The Orioles have gone- even the adolescents who had been extra quite a few this 12 months than I’ve ever seen, appearing very just like the chook equal of youngsters with their comical positions on the Oriole feeders, standing the other way up and sideways, their antics extraordinarily entertaining. I image them winging their means alongside the thousand mile or extra to their winter quarters in southern Mexico. I miss them and really feel the melancholy of autumn- they’re going to not return till late March or April.
The roses look as they did this spring; gorgeous colours, woke up from their torpor of the July and early August heat- splendid within the profusion of blooms, seemingly unconscious of the truth that they’ll final solely a day or two; unconscious of the that means of this new cool weather- the melancholy of autumn forecasting winter.
I want I may very well be just like the roses and the hummingbirds; unconscious of the passage of time; of the melancholy of autumn.