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| Photo by Julia M. D'June |
Winter approaches, the Alaska Paper Birch leaves pale from the outside inward, creating a medley of Cinnabar Green and Cadmium Yellow until one leaf is completely faded to Gamboge and the one right next to it retains its Hooker’s ungranulated shade. This leaf has yet to get the signal from the tree trunk that winter is coming. Time to quit your job of producing life sustaining glucose as the warmth of the sun is about to set and the moon will reign supreme. The ground still warm to the touch and has yet to release the heat gathered during the long midnight summer days. But the tree roots know something most casual observers of the forest do not, it is time for a much-deserved rest. Time to recuperate, shed this year’s foliage and set the foundation for next year’s deep breath.
The Black-capped Chickadees are inhaling a breath of freedom from the summer invaders. The chirrup-chirrup-cheerily migratory call of the American Robin gives way to the chickadee-dee-dee. A complex language of notes exchanged between the flock as they forage for insects and seeds to hide for the coming winter nourishment. Their rustle amidst the birch unsettles the leaves and some let loose their branch and drift to the ground. As the bandary flits through the trees their scratching and pecking tingles the air and washes over like a strand of music, out of key. The flock moves on, towards the next grove of birch. A Payne’s grey hue begins to build at the deckled edge of the sky. Trompe-l'œil by no means. Winter approaches.
The forest floor is rank with the tang of fungi fruiting bodies that signal the presence of a vast mycelium network of communication threads. Unlike the Chickadees calls this communication and resource sharing system is inaudible. Even the quietest observer cannot hear mycelium’s roar over the chatter of the pint-sized Red Squirrel as it collects cones from the top of a spruce tree. Biting them off their branches, letting them drop to the ground, to be secreted away for future meals. Their Red Ochre tails and flash of diluted Davy’s Grey underbelly conspicuous to their surrounding are nothing compared to the stubborn zealous defense of their claimed territory. When they sound the alarm it is obvious which trees they hold title.
Scumbling across the horizon Payne’s Grey begins to mix with Transparent Orange and brushes against Turner’s Yellow in a variegated wash of color. No man or creature holds true title to the setting sun or the rise of the moon. Each seamlessly transforming into the next. Nature knows the canvas for the change of seasons by heart and happily paints at will. Humanities role is to strive diligently to leave nature undisturbed and to render our part as observant stewards and fearlessly let winter approach.
When one feels smothered by winters approach and begins to panic at the sight of the setting sun, it is a good reminder that this is a necessary part of the process, one that nature needs in order to continue.
The Black-capped Chickadees are inhaling a breath of freedom from the summer invaders. The chirrup-chirrup-cheerily migratory call of the American Robin gives way to the chickadee-dee-dee. A complex language of notes exchanged between the flock as they forage for insects and seeds to hide for the coming winter nourishment. Their rustle amidst the birch unsettles the leaves and some let loose their branch and drift to the ground. As the bandary flits through the trees their scratching and pecking tingles the air and washes over like a strand of music, out of key. The flock moves on, towards the next grove of birch. A Payne’s grey hue begins to build at the deckled edge of the sky. Trompe-l'œil by no means. Winter approaches.
The forest floor is rank with the tang of fungi fruiting bodies that signal the presence of a vast mycelium network of communication threads. Unlike the Chickadees calls this communication and resource sharing system is inaudible. Even the quietest observer cannot hear mycelium’s roar over the chatter of the pint-sized Red Squirrel as it collects cones from the top of a spruce tree. Biting them off their branches, letting them drop to the ground, to be secreted away for future meals. Their Red Ochre tails and flash of diluted Davy’s Grey underbelly conspicuous to their surrounding are nothing compared to the stubborn zealous defense of their claimed territory. When they sound the alarm it is obvious which trees they hold title.
Scumbling across the horizon Payne’s Grey begins to mix with Transparent Orange and brushes against Turner’s Yellow in a variegated wash of color. No man or creature holds true title to the setting sun or the rise of the moon. Each seamlessly transforming into the next. Nature knows the canvas for the change of seasons by heart and happily paints at will. Humanities role is to strive diligently to leave nature undisturbed and to render our part as observant stewards and fearlessly let winter approach.
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When one feels smothered by winters approach and begins to panic at the sight of the setting sun, it is a good reminder that this is a necessary part of the process, one that nature needs in order to continue.
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