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Tuesday, October 15, 2002 Two months ago, in the middle of August, the sun didn't stray down behind the trees to the west of here until 7:30, 8 o'clock in the evening. Now -- the middle of October -- it's dropping behind the trees at 4:30. Soon as it does that, the temperature sinks, the air develops some bite. At 7:50 this morning, I took a look at the thermometer that hangs outside the dining room window read 17 chilly degrees. Frost covered everything in a layer so thick, so white that it looked like snow had fallen during the night. We're deep into autumn now, the cold season is upon us. For real. I've been working hard on getting the novel I've been laboring away on [see entries for 5/24, 6/15, 8/13, 8/22] ready for reading/feedback. At one point this afternoon, I stepped outside for a breath of air and was struck by how quiet it is here -- up on a hill, no neighbors close by. The only human sounds: a car or truck passing down below on Route 12, heading north toward Hardwick or south to Montpelier; the occasional report of a rifle somewhere off in the distance. Other than that, there are bird calls and insects singing in the grass. Maybe the sound of a gust of wind now and then. That's it. The fact that there are insects in the grass, crickets and their cousins, making it through these nights of hard frost and genuine cold is pretty amazing, I think. Hard to figure how anything without any natural padding or insulation would survive a long night of below-zero temperatures, though there must be pockets of insulation off in the long grass and undergrowth. By ten a.m. or so, when the sun has hauled itself high enough in the sky to melt away most frost, the little critters begin stirring. By midday, with the temperature up into the low 60s, they're carrying on as if the temperature had never dipped low enough to wipe out flowering plants or freeze the leaves on trees and bushes so that they let go in cascades of faded color when a breeze rustles branches. Something I noticed on my outing: woolly caterpillars (also called woolly bear caterpillars. All over the place, preparing for winter, doing whatever will continue the cycle of life for their breed. They're big buggers, covered with dense black and rust-colored fuzz. I even saw one or two of the small yellow butterflies that hang around here in the warm season – holdouts, basking in the brilliant October sunlight. And that's been the story of the last two days -- brilliant sunlight, deep blue skies. And leaves coming down. The trees around here have lost enough foliage that the sense of space is changing, opening out. Those that run along the uphill property line no longer obscure the view of the fields and upward-reaching slopes beyond. As the cold season settles in it opens things up, makes the terrain more transparent. The acres of long grass that stretch down the north side of the hill from the house, yellow with blossoming yarrow in August, gradually change to the whites and blue/purple of flea bane and asters in September. With the hard frosts, that's all changed to grays and browns, as the grass shrinks away and that land beneath becomes more apparent, more accessible for walking. Blah blah blah. I may be overdoing the rustic bit, but out here the land, the weather, the constant changes that are part of the day's passing are the major source of sensory input. Bear with me -- in six or seven weeks I'll be back in Madrid and my focus will change completely. rws 7:46 PM [+]
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