The Waiting Field (SWF)

Corn Field

More rain just minutes away, still, the waiting field close enough for another day’s quick visit—open space and evening solitude, a welcome walk down the lane.
The weeds here, not yet tamed.

yellow rocket

butterweed
cressleaf groundsel

And, as it is each spring, for me to wonder as to what will replace this wildness, I hope for its turning, yet again—
for crops of corn or soy.

But, as each neighboring field is planted, and this one still stands under golden tops, acres across, I worry it may have seen its last season—sold for a greater price to one who will title it for what it once was, “Deerfield Crossing” or “Fox Run.”
I will always find the name, corn field, most satisfying.

Common Sooty Wings
at the road's edge

For more information on cressleaf groundsel, look here.

See more Skywatch here.

Green: A Color in Many Shades

Our pond wears a heavy green blanket.
Even as I approach slowly and quietly, hundreds of frogs launch themselves in a seemingly choreographed sequence from the shallow, muddy edges into deeper water—skittering across the thick, clotted surface with noisy squeaks and plops.
A tremendous bowl of pea soup, bubbling with activity.


It would appear that much has been neglected here.
The edge grows wild and untamed. Grasses and jewelweed lean forward, dangling seeds from delicate stems. The clear water of spring has all but disappeared beneath a curtain.

Water droplets on Spotted Touch-me-not appear jewel-like,
hence the common name, Jewelweed.

My morning drive to work takes me past a hillside where tall trees once covered a steep slope.
Bales of straw now attempt to anchor the newly planted grass, a lovely green entry to the latest subdivision.
A sign with gilt trim advertises proudly.




There must be many shades of green.
Those that exist as a definition of color, alone. And those that are defined by a philosophy.
It is the spaces we do not conquer, that wear the truest shade.

As I was crouching by the edge of the pond to photograph this Jewelweed,
a Ruby-Throated Hummingbird buzzed into the picture to feed from its flower.

Our Green Space, the pond, and 35 frogs.

Making hay

I've remarked often, while driving past this field at the end of our road, that I should capture it in pictures. Its beauty with each season is stunning. Corn, wheat or soybeans--very likely, soon it will be gone.
So much of our surrounding rural landscape is being transformed into subdivisions. Clusters of clay-colored houses with slate-colored roofs mushroom each spring, as farmland generates more cash from developers, than crops. One day, I will arrive at this intersection and see it planted in grass--a sure sign that it is no longer a farmer's field. And it will be too late.


This morning the wagons and tractor will finish taking in the corn, and soon, reveal the farm hidden in the distance. The glossy stalks glow in the September sun. The air has finally turned cool and crisp, hinting color in the adjacent trees.

There's a satisfaction for me, that comes with starting a long-promised project. A comfort in knowing it won't slip past, undone, with regrets. So many things in life are lost, put off for a later date that never comes.
Naively we think there will be another chance next year. We wait for a more "perfect" time to act. Sometimes we are fortunate. Sometimes we are not.

My plans for tackling yard projects and exploring new hiking sites in the long-awaited cooler temperatures are canceled. A trip to the ER this week found a DVT in my leg.
So, I'm off my feet, and on heparin. Anticoagulant therapy should help, but it's a slow process. And, although I may get just about back to where I'd like to be in 12-24 weeks...all I can think about is how much I'll miss.

One of the hardest lessons to learn, is that there are no guarantees in life. If there's a chance to do something, do it while you can.
Make hay when the sun shines, tomorrow it may rain.