A Pause Between Seasons

It is October. Time of falling leaves, cutoff from their food source, no longer green sun eaters, dropping, twirling, rainbow kites cut from their tethers, streaking to earth, flashing their colors of red, yellow, orange, combinations of each, some muted, some vibrant, some retaining a slice of green, all medals of honor, for they served their mission above well and now in dropping, landing like paratroopers upon the cold ground they will provide a few final acts of selfless bravery by giving their last bits of energy as warmth to those who live under them over the winter and by early spring transfer what is left of their crumbling bodies will turn to soil to help feed their parents and others who in turn feed from the earth. 

Over sixty degrees on October 12. Clouds, scarce through much of the summer, now creep up on the sun. A week ago, a light frost proved too much for most of the bits of color in the open exposed fields, yet along the wide trail, asters dressed in fall colors of purple and blue, with yellow hearts and sometimes a touch of white to keep frost at bay by telling it not to bother, here they stand tall, robust, they play the music Pianississimo(pp) during the summer, and when others begin their long sleep in early fall, awakened they play 𝑃𝑖𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑚𝑜(𝑝𝑝) in harmony sending out solo electric vibrations, a joy to the male bees not unlike the leaves having finished their main mission some weeks ago - that of passing on their genes to the now comfortably sleeping new year queens - feed on the asters as though it is their last meal, likely it is, the bee’s wings are tattered from countless (they can count, only why bother) trips to flowers through branches and leaves, hair askew, silky but thin, muscles weaken from low body temperatures from low air temperatures even though they rested in sunlight before flying turning the sun’s freely given energy into muscle power into flying fuel now resting upon a New York Aster its yellow center advertising nectar so sweet and warming as hot apple cider on a cool sunny fall day that I sip as I watch two then three, here comes a fourth bumping into another how can they all expect to fit on that one flower but they do if only momentarily though one gives up and flys to a nearby bloom slightly closed and not as appetizing or nourishing while the other three probe in and out drilling deep pumping energy from the depths of the well as I too sip from the bottom of my reusable cup wondering do they know, do the bees realize unlike the queens produced this year, they being male have nearly outlived their purposefulness, dining as they are on the last meals, their last meals at the bottom of the plates, with no shelters to winter over, no freeze dried flowers, no antifreeze chemicals in their bodies, that there is no diapause for them only a brief pause before they die, and would it make any difference if they did or do know, is that any reason to not enjoy these sparsely located restaurants who are grateful for the bee's patronage, (is it a sort of nepotism?), as evident when I inadvertently move to abrubtly and spook some of the bees only to have them fly a short distance away but quickly return to their seats at the NYASTER diner because flight is costly, and diners are now few and far apart, best to ignore those who might be obstreperous for which I do apologize to them and thank the bees as I always do for allowing me to observe them for I am most curious at how different they all look, the colors and patterns and behaviors from species to species, even slight differences in individuals within a species, and how the bumbles will raise a leg to tell me I am a little too close to their table, a little too attentive, bothering them, or two legs to say they feel anxious, and how a bumble will fly into a green sweat bee with no more of a hello than a bump and how sometimes the much smaller sweat bee will hold its own remaining on the flower next to the mammoth bumble and how the flower smiles because she knows though she must give she also receives in return the pollination that helps future flowers come to be long after these bees and these flowers reach the end of the fall pause and die.   

I always think of us as brothers and sisters in the pursuit of a deeper understanding of the inverting world. And in the fall, I quietly grieve that diapause means visits with my friends pause while some of them slumber and some return borrowed energy to the earth.

This blog post reflects on the beauty and transition of fall, focusing on falling leaves, blooming asters, and the final days of bees. It explores themes of life, death, and expresses gratitude for renewal in nature, and quiet grief for the seasonal pause that winter brings.

The author wishes to warn those who feel that winter in Vermont is too long that the middle paragraph consists of a single 642-word sentence.