Seasons Archives - Page 2 of 3 - Ambre Dawn Leffler

September and October

September is a time of transition. The days here are still hovering at 106 degrees but the sun is setting just before 7:00 p.m. giving a false sense of cooler weather. Pumpkin spice lattes are back. At the same time local menus are featuring peach cobbler and locally made peach jam. Summer is lingering but everyone is really ready for Fall this year.

Why the pumpkin spice latte? It engages the sense of taste as a marker for Fall. Yes, it is flavored syrup in a cup of coffee to manufacture a sense of the season. But the anticipation of its return tells me people are deeply seeking a connection with the seasons. We crave those little sensory signs to signal that time has moved in the patterns and cycles of nature that we need despite our technology-driven daily life.

I won’t be ordering a pumpkin spice latte until the temperature is below 100 degrees. But I will be taking down the flower arrangements from Summer and getting the hearth ready for Fall.

Autumn

Seeing Fall colors was hit or miss in Flagstaff and Sedona. A brief winter storm blew the leaves off the aspens, ending the chance for a return visit to my favorite trees up at Snowbowl. But I did see beautiful colors in town, like the tree pictured here. I spent time at the Flagstaff Arboretum and enjoyed taking in Fall through all the senses. The road was so rutted from the recent floods that I almost checked to see all my teeth were there after the jolting and bouncing during the two-mile drive. No wonder the road closes in November.

I saw a squirrel hard at work, bounding from tree to tree preparing stashes for Winter. A quarter mile later I saw a tarantula crossing a few feet in front of me. I stopped to let him (her?) pass. The tarantula had a definite agenda, walking over pine needles toward a rock with the same sense of purpose we do when running errands. I felt like a guest in someone else’s home, and it was fascinating to step back and see what was going on in a world outside my human frame of reference. The scent of mulch underneath the pine needles was different this year, almost overpowering with hints of citrus, maybe a result of the abundance of rain after an extreme drought. I plucked a juicy pine needles and munched on it as I walked, its sharp orange taste waking up my tongue. At the end of the trail I closed my eyes for a few paces, listening to the wind murmuring in the branches, telling its secrets in a language only trees understand.

August

city dawn dusk night — Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The closing ceremonies of the Tokyo Summer Games were particularly moving this year. The host city perfectly captured the spirit of coming together despite global challenges. I always get weepy when the flame is extinguished. There are few opportunities in life to witness the transitory in such a tangible way. The athletes, their triumphs and disappointments, and the culture of the host city will never intersect in the same way ever again. These moments only exist in a two-week span. Like a hike through a forest or a stroll along a beach, no two moments will ever be duplicated.

The Closing Ceremonies exemplified the Japanese culture of celebrating the beautiful in a simple moment. In the story leading up to the extinguishing of the flame, a mother leads her children to gaze at the sky. They point out constellations, smiling as they share with each other. They anticipate what is next, looking to nature. The flame slowly goes out, the petals of the cauldron slowly close in circular bands until the cauldron is once again a perfect sphere. The memory of the flame is safely tucked inside. The woman and the children curl their hands into a ball, symbolic of prayer, peace and gratitude. All is as it should be. It is an ending, but a symbol of how in nature everything cycles from one state to the next. You never know how much time you have in a place, or with loved ones, but there is comfort in knowing life flows in nature’s pattern.

July

green grass field under gray clouds — Photo by Raychel Sanner on Pexels.com

The monsoons have returned! I didn’t realize how much they had dwindled until their resurgence rekindled memories of summer. The last monsoon season I remember is 2006. It’s astonishing how quickly an environment can change. Now that they are back I recognize the patterns. Bird chatter picks up in variety and volume. The wind gusts suddenly from the east, whipping the branches of the citrus and fronds of the palm trees sideways. The outflow winds tell me a storm is on the way. The leaves are lit in neon yellows and greens as the sky darkens to a purplish indigo. Not long after there is a low rumble in the distance as fat drops land in the pool or concrete with gumball-sized splats. I see a flash out of the corner of my eye and second-guess whether it is lightning. Then I see the second bright flash moments later overhead as I shriek and run back inside. The Soleri wind bell on my porch rings insistently as the wind intensifies and the thunder gets closer.

The sky opens up and I hear the raindrops on the skylights. They get louder, more staccato, and I’m not sure if it’s rain or hail. I see the light blue flash of lighting simultaneously through the east and south windows. Seconds later thunder rumbles seemingly from all directions. A wall of rain blurs the view outside the windows. The storm gradually lessens, then lets up. I step outside and breathe in the scent of creosote unique to the desert. Everything smells bright and clean.The curve-billed thrasher is the first to start singing. Soon other birds join in. The rumbling clouds move on, leaving behind moisture-rich air that feels like a balm on my skin. The vegetables in my garden perk up, the birds feast on what’s been flushed to the surface, and there is a tangible renewal of energy that only a monsoon storm can bring.

June

It is hatching time! In my backyard I have seen a family with four baby mourning doves, a quail covey with two chicks, another quail covey with five, and two quail parents with a chick fluffed up by its new feathers growing in. I have not seen the baby woodpeckers in the saguaro nest (May newsletter) but the parents have been busy flying out to nearby trees for food. The skyscape is filled with chatter from birds transitioning to Summer.

In the last two weeks of May I saw a quail pair hopping up into my geranium planter. At first I thought they were scouting locations for a nest but then thought that wasn’t likely because I have a drip system running through that planter and assumed they wouldn’t have a nest where the ground was wet. When I checked on my garden in the evenings I walked right past the geraniums to check on my yellow pear tomatoes. I’d exclaim how cute the little tomatoes were, hanging in a cluster on the branch. Little did I know that the cutest things ever were about to hatch under the geraniums!

I looked out the morning of May 28 and saw the parents rummaging in the geraniums. Later in the morning I saw a clump of something near the garden and realized it was a newly-hatched batch of chicks! I raced over to the window and counted five chicks clustered under their mother. They followed her across the concrete and down into the dirt. She hopped back up on the concrete and four followed. The littlest one wasn’t able to flap enough to get back on the concrete so she led the others down to the dirt to could go around another way. Once they were gathered in the dirt she showed them how to wallow. One gave it a try and left the tiniest little indentation in the dirt. Then they were on their way.

If I hadn’t been looking out the window at that moment I would have completely missed it. Have your binoculars nearby so you won’t miss a moment of hatching season.

May

I love nests. I am always in awe of how mother birds become architects in spring. They are clever and resourceful in both design and location. One spring after a major house remodel, I was delighted to see bits of pink insulation and snips of blue and green electrical wire wound around a nest in the crook of the saguaro in my front yard. Another year I watched a hummingbird use her beak to carefully detach a spider web from the pool railing, carry the web to the pine tree, and wind it around her nest.

When I was little my mom saved a nest from a poplar tree. The power company sent out a crew to trim the tree which was interfering with the power lines. As the trimmers were working, they cut down a branch with a nest in it. One of the trimmers knocked on the door and asked my mom if she wanted the nest in case the mother bird was looking for it. The nest seemed newly constructed. She said she did and saved the nest in a closet. The next year the crew was back to trim again. This time they found baby birds that had fallen out of a tree. They couldn’t find a nest. She said, ” Why yes, I have a nest!” She quickly went to the shelf in the closet and got down the nest. They placed the eggs in the nest and put the nest back in a tree.

In May one year a quail mother decided the tall geranium pot on the back porch was the perfect spot for a nest. When she left for a few minutes I would tiptoe out to count the speckled eggs. I was surprised one day to see a line of quail make a procession to hop up to the pot and visit with her as she sat on her nest. It’s like the quail were having a baby shower for her. When the eggs hatched, the pot was too tall for the chicks to hop out. The parents were nearby but distressed. I called Liberty Wildlife Center and they said it was fine to touch them with my bare hands. Those chicks move fast! It was not easy to catch them. Their warm fuzzy little bodies seemed so transient as I quickly scooped them up and set them on the ground. Two of them lost their way and didn’t catch up with their parents. I took them in a towel-lined box to the rescue center.

The next day at the tea ceremony after yoga class, my instructor proudly announced that I was the mother of 13 kids. The other students had puzzled faces as they looked at me. I enjoyed this for a moment and then told them my kids were quail chicks!

Another year I rescued a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest. I drove to the Liberty Wildlife Center in 105 degrees without the a/c on and the baby bird wrapped in a towel. They smiled at my baby bird and said, “That’s a curve-billed thrasher!” (At that time I had no idea what kind of bird that was. Now this cheerful singer is a character in my children’s mystery.) They asked if I had the nest. I’d picked it up but didn’t take it with me. They said I could keep the nest in case another bird needed it. If you find a nest, save it. You never know when a bird might need it!

April

It is Spring migration season, and this time of year presents an opportunity to connect with the rhythms of nature through the flight paths of birds. Their migration syncs with daylight, temperature, stars, thermal patterns in the atmosphere, bodies of water, and the magnetic fields of the earth. When I see flocks of birds migrating, my awareness of the universe expands and this awareness brings me a sense of peace knowing that in nature everything has a time, place, and purpose.

Birds use the stars to navigate during migration, and on cloudy nights they get confused by the lights of skyscrapers or other bright city lights. Turning out the lights during migration can reduce bird deaths by 80 percent. Tens of millions of birds migrate through the Philadelphia area twice a year and the city has adopted Lights Out Philly, a city initiative asking property managers and tenants to turn off the lights between midnight and 6 a.m. from April 1 to May 31. To learn more visit Bird Safe Philly. Chicago was the first city to adopt a Lights Out program in 1999. Since then 33 other cities have created their own Lights Out program. The Colorado State University Aeroeco Lab site posts light level alerts in other cities of the United States.

To help birds during migration season, point any outside lights downward. Birds are attracted to red and white light, but these long-wavelength light sources interfere with the internal magnetic compass of nocturnal migrating birds, especially on overcast nights. Choosing light from the blue-green part of the spectrum, with little or no long-wavelength radiation, helps birds with magnetic compass orientation for migratory flight.

If you don’t live near a migration route you can view the Sandhill Crane migration along the Platte River in Nebraska with the National Audubon Society’s Rowe Sanctuary Crane Camera. Their flight patterns as they land at dawn and dusk are mesmerizing.

March

It is wildflower season here in the desert. Wildflowers only last a few weeks and are most abundant if there has been at least one inch of rain the previous Fall before it turns cold. Like the microclimates of Spring itself, they are fleeting. Temperatures hover at frost level for just a few hours in the morning. Afternoon sunshine is strong for a short interval before sunset when the temperatures rapidly cool down. The vibrant oranges of Mexican poppies and purples of fiesta flowers contrast with the green stems and leaves, painting the desert landscape in colors it lacks most of the year. My favorite thing about wildflowers is the way they close up at night, then open up in the morning at first light. It is a reminder of the strong tie to the sun cycle of the day that is lacking in the mechanics of our modern lives.

February

In February everything can seem the same. The landscape in many places is a series of grays and whites. Winter storms create conditions for more time indoors after endless days indoors. But the joyful practice of hygge counteracts the mundane, dark, cold days. Hygge (pronounced hue-gah or hoo-gah, depending where you live) is a feeling of coziness and contentment in the present moment. The word first appeared in old Norwegian and is a way of life in Denmark. Creating a ritual around brewing a cup of tea, lighting a candle, or taking a nap in a sun patch when the sun does peek through the clouds are all ways to embrace hygge.

One of the first things I do in the morning is listen to the bird chatter. I turn on the heater, steep the coffee in the French press, then head out to the front porch to listen. The curve-billed thrasher is delivering the news, the pileated woodpecker is working on the bark of the palm tree, then the pigeons join in later from the top of the light post. If there is a hawk nearby, the chatter intensifies. Occasionally starlings sit in a row along the date palm branch to sing.

At dusk I return to the porch, listening as the birds tuck in for the night. The chatter is loud but not quite as loud as the morning. Hearing the birds wind down from the day signals my mind to slow down and tuck in for the night, cozy in my own home. I find contentment in being synced to time by birdsong at dawn and dusk.

There have been numerous reports of an increase in bird songs this past year. The reduction in traffic during the pandemic has created conditions ideal for bird song. The soundscape in my area has been a rich one, even in the dead of winter. Whether this is because I’m spending mindful time listening, or the birds are able to sing more robustly, I can’t say for sure. But listening to bird song brings joy to the start of my day and coziness to the evening.

January

January is the perfect time to appreciate the design of trees. Without leaves, you can clearly see the structure and pattern of the branches. Each branch is a miniature of the tree. The branches form interesting frames for the clouds and sky. You can also clearly see the birds that reside in your area. Their feathers are different colors from other seasons but you can see their shapes, observe who gathers where and when, and figure out who is in charge of the neighborhood.

In January the pool is too chilly for swimming, despite some perceptions that it is sunny and warm year-round. There is winter in the desert. It’s just more subtle than the iconic images of snow and icicles. The deciduous trees are bare, revealing the shapes of birds and letting in the sounds of traffic. Occasionally fog obscures the mountains. Quail, doves, and bunnies fluff up against the cold until the sun arcs across the south. Numerous plants go into a state of dormancy while others bear fruit.

January is a time of hope for rain and snow to recharge the groundwater supply. In mid-January the temperatures start to warm up and it seems like we won’t get any precipitation. But then there is the Waste Management Phoenix Open at the end of January. Every year there is a downpour at some point of the tournament and I am cheering for the rain. I gleefully watch the weather forecast and images of rain washing out the roads in the area. (I should say that while I am not a fan of golf, this tournament is the most sustainably-managed event of its kind.) Rain is breaking news here. I am always happy to see its return this time of year.