Beneath the purple plum tree, I sense the unraveling of summer.
Gone are the humming bird and its whir. The leaves are turning red, yellow, orange, and rose blush. The air smells more interesting now.
The chipmunk works fiercely; gathering millet, sunflower seeds, apple slices and peanuts as quickly as they are put out. I know where one of his holes is – in between the violet patches. He knows I sometimes sit there with my nose inches from the opening. Still, I stare down it hopeful. Mostly, my stares elapse into catnaps.
I’ve yet to spot the wooly worm. So, I cannot say if a hard winter will follow the unraveling of fall; although, the chipmunk is certainly compelled. Perhaps he has glimpsed the dark bands of the wooly worm and the thin brownish-red stripe has filled him with purpose.
My Own has gathered up the faithfully tended cabbages, peppers, eggplants, tomatoes, onions, corn; the orchard’s pears and even the mottled apples. Herbs, catnip and flower seeds have been dried. My Own was compelled like the chipmunk; though, she too, has not seen. She believes in the Unseen and knows the unraveling of seasons is the prelude to all things.