by
Jean Hughes
September 25, 1995
To those of us who walk in the wild places every day, the seasons are old friends that we meet with once a year. This year, fall did not come by touching my face, as it usually does. Instead, it has come to me as a quiet realization as I walk my road.

Clouds curl over the rising sun. From pink to orange and then to yellow-pearl, they gather and ascend. By the time I turn to walk back home, they have completely disappeared into the blue.

A flock of jays has gathered in the orchard. Calling their bird messages, they whirl together into the air. Stragglers fly from tree top to tree top.

Every September the blue jays have a noisy reunion. Do jays migrate? Do I have different jays in summer than in winter? Otherwise, why do they gather? Maybe they are just sociable and get together to talk. They do have a varied vocabulary. It contains everything from a melodic whisper to a yell. Or maybe they just get together for a few laughs, as we laugh at "Baker's Blue Jay Yarn" by Mark Twain. Only the blue jays know for sure why they gather in the fall.

* * *
September is a special month for me. It is when I began my journey through life on earth. This year, on the night of the full moon, I sat in my rocker and enjoyed my gift of moonshine. It is one of my dreams to see geese fly across the moon. If I ever succeed, you will know. There will be a rocking chair, with me in it, rocking in the crater of the moon, for that is how high my heart will soar.


Most spaghetti sauces taste better if they are allowed to sit for a few minutes, or in the refrigerator overnight, before using. This is a good sauce to take along on camping trips.

Gypsy Spaghetti Sauce
Simmer for 1 hour, or until thickened: 1/2 lb. salami cut into small
strips, 4 cups tomato juice, 4 oz. tomato paste, 
4 oz. mushroom pieces, 1 t. sugar, 1/2 t. oregano and 1/4 t. basil
Serve over 8 oz. spaghetti. Top with Parmesan cheese.
Serves 4.

This afternoon, I walk around the edge of a big field. Many of the summer birds are gone, and I no longer hear a whir of wings every time I brush through the wildflowers.

At one spot, birds are flickering in and out of the trees. I stoop and wait. A first-year male scarlet tanager, with orange-yellow breast and new-black wings, flies in to perch near me. At the same moment, a small black and orange bird lights on a broken branch overhead. It is a redstart.

Two female hummingbirds have been hovering around me all the while I have been hidden. They are within arms reach. When they light on the flowers, I can hear them chirping softly to each other. Until now, I've known only the music of their wings, that unmistakable, dense hum. But now I am privy to their conversations.

When I finally stand up after camouflaging myself, I have to live through the torturous tingle in my legs and feet of having crouched too long. But who cares? Beauty has come my way.

As I walk home, twilight nears. Fall is penetrating everywhere. There is a silver setting sun, an edge of moon, a cool breeze and a cap of clouds that the wind has carded into rolags ready for spinning. Vibrant green is gone from the woods' edges. Rings of red show on the leaves of sassafras trees, on the Virginia creepers and on the wahoo pods.

Orange and black have been the colors of the day. Now, monarch butterflies swirl along the roadway, almost as thick as bees. I could reach out and catch a handful, but I do not. I ask a poetic question of one that floats near my face.

Give Me A Clue
       Butterfly, how do you know
       When the goldenrod will glow,
       And the jays will flock and scream,
       And the tree-hearts loose their green?
       Do you wake to jingling leaves,
       See red creepers knit their sleeves?
       Tell me, monarch, flying high,
       Kissing color on my sky,
       Who has waked you from cocoon? 
       Was it sun or was it moon?
       Did you hear some vernal tones?
       Did they trigger your hormones?
       From what source do you remember
       That you migrate in September?
       And who taught you, butterfly,
       To tip your wing as you sail by?
Copyright 1995, Jean Hughes.

Jean's book of ramblings and recipes "A Country Mile of Winter" and her book of poetry "The Earth's My Home" are available for $4.95 each plus $1.30 for postage and handling. Her nature letter "Diary of a Back Yard Naturalist", published 5 times yearly, is available for $12.50 per year. Ten of Jean's favorite recipes will be included free with each book or nature letter ordered. Order from...

Country Mile Publications
616 E. Monroe St.
Delphi, Indiana 46923

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