12/8/24: Seasonal Shift

Transcript

As I set out for an afternoon walk through the fields and forests surrounding my home, the signs of the impending seasonal shift are everywhere. The dog days have slipped away. 

Although the height of summer has passed, a vestige of those hot and humid days can be heard in the requiem droned by the cicadas. They arrived on the landscape among the hottest days after having lived beneath the cool, damp earth as subterranean nymphs for years. Warmed by the torrid summer air, they would sing from the tree limbs from nearly dawn until dusk. Today their songs are limited to these amber hours of the late afternoon when the sun’s daily influence peaks. 

Although the boundary between summer and autumn has begun to dissipate, the forest is still a wash of green. Maple, birch, oak, and poplar all still bear their leaves aloft with only the faintest suggestion of change at their leaf margins. As I walk beneath their shade, I note the lack of bird song. At long last, after ceaselessly laying claim to their particular stretch of woodland, the vireos and wood-pewees have fallen silent. Their songs are among the last of those we hear each summer. Having reared their young, they forgo the energy expenditure of singing and defending territories in favor of readying themselves for long-distance migration in the days ahead. No longer responsible for fueling the rapid growth of nestlings, they forage for themselves. Accumulated stores of fat serve as the fuel for nocturnal flights towards the forests of northwestern South America. Today, I can still hear the occasional mewing of a Red-eyed Vireo somewhere within the canopy so it seems that the chickadees and titmice are not denied the company of these seasonal companions yet. 

Nearer the ground, hints of the palette shift are more evident. Cooler nights and sun-soaked days have ushered in the beginnings of foliar transformation for many shrubs and herbaceous plants. Once uniformly emerald leaves now show blushes of ruby and amethyst, brought on by the production of anthocyanins. These pigments help mitigate the stresses of the changing conditions, extending the useful life of the foliage into the early days of autumn. Meanwhile, the brackens and cinnamon ferns that had dominated the roadside are increasingly blotched with yellow and speckled with brown. The prevailing flowers of the season show no loss of vigor, however. Indeed, many are just now coming into their full splendor, their purple and yellow petals complimenting the landscape transforming beside them. 

A butterfly drifting into a sunny patch of Canada goldenrod and New England aster brings my progress to a halt. Although this period is the peak of Monarch activity, this handsome orange and black butterfly is the more diminutive Viceroy – the Müllerian mimic of the larger Monarch. As my focus shifts away from the Viceroy, I become aware of the steady hum of the various bees and flies partaking of the year’s last sources of nectar. Below, the furry forms of American Dagger, Isabella Tiger, and Hickory Tussock moth caterpillars are making haste, rushing off to secure a place to pass the winter as either pupa enclosed within cocoons woven of their bristly, hair-like setae or, in the case of the Isabella Tiger or “Wooly Bear” caterpillar, frozen almost solid and without a beating heart until spring. 

Turning away from the roadside, I wade through interwoven grasses and sedges towards my ultimate destination – a flooded beaver flowage ringed with Red Maples. Here the shift towards fall is most pronounced as the Red or “Swamp” maples within wetlands are some of the first trees to turn. True to name, many of these trees have begun to take on a crimson hue. This reddening is intensified by its mirrored reflection on the still water of the wetland. Brilliantly red meadowhawk dragonflies swiftly patrol the pond margins while phantom crane flies hover over the water, occasionally dipping their abdomens beneath the surface to lay their eggs. 

The low hanging sun casts a brilliant glare over the pond. I can just make out the silhouetted forms of adolescent Hooded Mergansers and Wood Ducks, no doubt hatched within one of the many snags standing within this wetland. Putting the setting sun at my back to head homeward, I find the Dog-day cicada’s drone has been exchanged for chirp of the Fall field cricket. Summer’s hold on the landscape has loosened all the more.