Here at the end of August, July's riot of color, temperature, and rain has reached its end. At long last, the relentless summer heat and moisture have given us a reprieve, and I find, dodging beer cans in the road as I drive the slow tractor down to the rental ground for another round of weed control, that even the green of the grass at the roadside has faded in a covering of grey gravel dust.
Where a month ago a rainbow of colors splashed against a background of deep green, late August finds that the bee balm has shed its petals, and the rugosa rose has simply disappeared into the background. Thistle flowers have turned to down, and the multi-hued roadside of summer's peak has given way to fields of goldenrod, spiky dull-yellow flowers atop stalks of dull green leaves. Bright yellow parsnip flowers and the rich browns of flowering grasses have given way to grey stems oxidizing, waiting to fall to the soil. Even the green has begun its slow fade into autumn, the field corn showing yellow leaves at the bottoms of the plants, and spots appearing on the spring's oak leaves. The goldfinches, abundant in the countryside, have lost their full brightness, and columns of black and white vultures climbing thermal columns up into the bright blue sky seem more and more common every day.
A cold late-morning breeze leaves me wishing for my vest while I'm working on the tractor, and the sun shines under the brim of my hat, even at 10:30. Already the days have grown noticeably shorter, the sun lower in the sky as we slide toward the equinox. I rise in darkness.
Although some planting remains, the weeding is all but done. Our work now shifts to the work of preparing for winter, cover crops of rye and hairy vetch, oats and barley, to do the work of holding the soil against winter's ravages. Soon we will begin to plant next year’s crops of spinach and garlic. Acorns litter the driveways and field edges, and speak to the harvest that began just last week with shallots and onions pulled into the greenhouse to dry their outer leaves into rustling skins, sealing the fleshy bulbs against the drying winds of Asia's central plain. The still-growing fall harvest beckons, and although it has much more growing yet to do, I feel the urge to dig in, to hoard the colors and the harvest against winter's ravages. Save the memory of the warm rays of sunshine, savor the flavor of tomatoes, relish in even the faded colors of late August, this pale shadow of summer's fullness. A cool wind foretells the bleak days of winter, of loss, of emptiness and hunger somehow combined with the refuge and comfort gained in the year’s work completed and put to rest.
And still, an indigo bunting flashes into the trees, and an unseen chickadee calls from a distant corner of the yard. The scent of fresh-mown hay drifts across the road, the wind carrying the fading smell of the sun.
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