Change

“Nothing endures but change.”

Heraclitus

I feel the change in the air. I can see it in the golden light of the morning sun. I can hear it in the insistence of the caws of crows. Sunny the Calico runs back and forth across the lawn. I think she can sense it too; there is a certain energy to this day.

The wind picks up and shakes the tall pines that frame the yard. The deep purple Asters have begun to bloom and complement quite nicely the bright yellow Susans.

I spy a white butterfly. It is Cabbage White, I believe. It is a flurry of activity and is much too quick for me to identify it by the tale-tell spots on its white wings. It flutters around before stopping by some phlox and then heads to a popular spot for butterflies; the Buddleia or otherwise known as, what else: A butterfly bush. This magnificent plant is heavy in nectar and butterflies as well as hummingbirds and bees are attracted to it’s heady scent…it calls to them like moths to a flame…so irresistable.

It is hard to believe that it is September already. This past summer has seemed to just fly by. I look at my poor neglected lawn; shaggy around the edges, brown spotted and weedy. I admit I have let it go this past year. I have found different priorities and a perfect lawn stopped being one of them.

I have learned to enjoy my garden more and work in it less. I have accepted a certain amount of naturalness and with it some untidiness. It seems the birds and the bees and the cats…. and the dragonflies don’t seem to mind.

I mention this as a big greenish dragonfly circles over my head, high in the air. What a magnificent creature. I marvel at it’s speed and agility. I sit under the beautiful green Laurel tree, a tree I planted when my son was in the first grade. It stands tall just as he does now.  He’s a senior in high school this year. Oh my, how time flies.

The breeze plays a melodic tune on the chimes in the tree as the wind picks up again. I remind myself to enjoy this time; in a few months time it will be cold again and I will watch from the back window making plans for the coming spring and wishing I could sit under the tree and watch the butterflies as I am now.

A chickadee stops and sings its namesake song: “Chickadee-dee-dee-dee” to me atop the fence. Mario comes in very slowly from behind the fuchsia, creeping through the grass on his way to the little black headed bird. The bird is much too fast for Mario and flies away.  He acknowledges me with his customary ‘”silent mew”, sits down and together under the laurel tree, the cat and I watch the seasons change.

 

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