Nature’s Calendar

The meadow at Manos Meadows, my home in Oklahoma for nearly forty years, was nature’s calendar, marking the changes from one season to the next. In the spring, daisies danced in the sun and wind carried the freshness of damp earth and renewed life. Hidden in tall grass, a quail called and another answered. A family of rabbits made their home in the tall grass. Shiny buttercups brightened the warming earth and acres of elfin bluets hugged the ground.

Tangles of yellow honeysuckle burdened the back pasture fence and its heady fragrance filled the air. Red honeysuckle, twice as showy and not half as sweet, added to the labyrinth of heavy vines. Beside a cedar, a wild rose blushed while its blossoms perfumed the air.

Snowy blackberry blooms gave way to red berries as days grew longer and warmer. Wild cherries burst forth with small, round fruit that slowly ripened, to the delight of hungry birds.

Under a silver moon, meadow folk who slept during the day, woke up to hop or glide through secret tunnels in the grass. From a stand of trees, a whip-poor-will called while an owl hooted somewhere in the darkness, sending mice and rabbits into their hiding places.

As the season changed, black-eyed Susans, replaced the daisies. Bumblebees droned among wildflowers. Fragile butterflies hesitated over a confusion of petals. Cicadas added their shrill jangle to the summer sounds. Bouquets of Queen Anne’s Lace and Meadowfresh crowded each other.

Ever changing, the long, hot days of summer cooled as one season gave way to another. Now, purple thistles lifted showy blooms. Dragonflies darted erratically over the grass. Meadowlarks and quail rejoiced in the sunshine, but the nighttime voice of the tree-loving whippoorwill was heard no more as he made his way South.

Monarch butterflies gathered for their long  flight and hummingbirds decided it was time to go. Migratory birds stopped in the meadow long enough to feast on the seeds before continuing their southward flight. 

The tall grasses gleamed with silver of seed tufts and thistles exchanged their purple crowns for cotton thatches. Goldenrod, touched by frost, bowed its bronzed blooms. Then in the stillness of dawn, a new sound echoed above the blurred lines of dark meadow grass. Morning held its breath as the lonely cry of wild geese haunted the sky. Autumn!

 Soon, tall grass would stir like slender, brittle spears in the chill fall breezes. When winter rain coated them, each stem would be frozen in a clinking armor of ice. Rearranged by passing seasons, the meadow was a canvas for nature’s changing moods.