The spiders have strung their snares across every path, so that the lead walker breaks off a spicebush sweep, holding it at and above eye-height to prevent about half of spider attempts to drape themselves across your hat brim or glasses. How the other 50% get through continues to be a mystery.
The Joe Pye Weed is not quite head high, and the goldenrod, while abundantly growing, have not yet announced their presence by their conspicuous flowers that will soon dominate the roadsides.
The butterfly bush is nearly spent, Queen Anne’s Lace at peak, and Jewel Weed just beginning to set blossoms.
Avian transients are far south, resident crows rule the roost, and the Japanese beetles are settling in for a long feast on our garden.
Yellow jackets are beginning to get cranky, and make mowing an exercise in vigilance rather than the early-summer mindless push-pull routine.
Wild grapes are full size, fully green, and the blackberries will be gone in a week.
The mullein, seen here, is approaching it’s full height, and will spend its energy generated from its rabbit-ear downy leaves into making gazillions of tiny seeds the goldfinches like so much.
Dragonflies are not as abundant this year, now being when we see them daily in the slanting morning light, patrolling Goose Creek for the latest overnight hatch of Mayflies and midges. We see no bats at all this summer, and as I’ve told you, the butterfly abundance is abnormal. We did see our first “puddling” of Spicebush swallowtails yesterday at the barn crossing; the dog ate a few, always disappointed they don’t really taste very much like butter.
It is officially mid-summer when we begin to imagine ourselves once again, in a meer six weeks, gathering twigs on each hike around the place, setting them aside for morning fires when the snows fall and the living world has retreated south and underground for yet another year.