|a fathers day frolic|
After dinner and before tucking the chickens in for the night we take out the Bs, John Deere two cylinder 1947 and 1949 tractors, and go for a ride. For this our original walking paths through the western meadow have been multiplied and widened. Sitting on the seats of these giants our heads are high above the landscape rather like being astride elephants, I should imagine. Moving at speeds approximating a light jog there's plenty of time to view all that is growing on these sweet acres and witness the changes taking place, the birds, butterflies, bees that live and visit, the foot paths and nesting spots the deer have made.
A few short days after the solstice, our meadow is wearing a patchwork frock of ever-changing perennials, young as the summer is young, mostly goldenrod and queen anne's lace, vetches, coneflowers, ditch lilies, asters, grasses of many types, curly dock, orange hawkweed, fleabane, campion, nettle, knapweed. (There are uninvited residents as well, wild grapevine, burdock, thistle, brambles and cow parsley, but these in their way provide habitat and sustenance.) Over this she has donned an early season pinafore of daisies, the hems of which are stitched in wild strawberries and white sweet clover. Her pinafore's pockets are currently full of red clover, birds foot trefoil, and eager stalks of milkweed.
Though we are surrounded by commercially farmed acreage, we take comfort in knowing our ridge meadow is a respite from the artificially modified and chemically harmful. Is it any wonder she is teaming with life?
Who can resist the magical winking lights of warm summer nights? In Buteraland fireflies or lightning bugs are known as "on bugs." Makes perfect sense, don't you agree?