The Slow Seduction of a Fleeting Autumn

I am seduced to wanderlust chasing autumn’s fleeting blush. The possibility of cooler air refreshing humid days and colors emerging other than summer’s tired green domination is a finger-curling, “come hither” invitation to settle a little deeper in. The birds moving south feel this before I do and know the time coming by cues we can’t see. Shifts in dark sky constellations and a more oblique slant to the sun’s rays guide them to lower latitudes. Even as the dawn chorus goes silent, there’s a different pulse coming that treads quietly, but powerfully. It is in this season that I pay attention to the subtle declaration of a new chip note in the old field’s dog fennel or a half-hearted sub-song that’s whispered in the weeds. It isn’t the drama of a May morning’s claim to nesting territory or securing of a partner to make more, egg by egg, but rather a note to notice the subtle; to see what lies beneath the obvious. The shorebirds lead the way, showing up before the end of July on Southern Piedmont pond margins all the way from Arctic breeding grounds. A spotted sandpiper’s brief respite at my farm puddle means it finds something good enough to stop for in the broken landscape I’m trying to recover by letting it rest from prior abuse. A flycatcher whose identity vacillates between yellow-bellied and other Empidonax finds the topmost fence line suitable enough to sally forth and back to earn a buggy living from. A palm warbler appears, maybe from a boreal region where it may have kept company with grizzlies, wolves, and Sandhill cranes. It flips its tail in the meadow lane as if to say, “I’m here!” and October is yet to arrive. The goldenrod’s gilded flowers flag the change, and I feel it heart-wise more than the other three divisions of the calendar that we humans count by days and weeks in square numbered blocks.

Birder demigod Roger Tory Peterson’s hallmark “confusing fall warblers” shouldn’t just be about the frustration of identifying brightly plumaged birds gone to look-alike olive drab, it should also offer lessons in looking more carefully for slight differences in quaint cues. I call these “feel marks.” Then, the heart arcs with the head, and the urge to prioritize objectifying counts and x’s on a list loses ground. “Wandering” is an autumnal watchword. Zugunruhe is the wondrous German word that defines our (yes OUR) restless migratory mood to be somewhere other than where we are. It arises in me with spring but swells to full-on longing when fall arises. The seasonal shift from growth to dormancy as summer retires is a full-moon tidal pull that has pushed me to an extreme tension between impatience and wanting more. I know autumn is an ephemeral season, as all seasons are, but because it is defined by falling leaves and departing souls, its inability to stay is most desirable. I feel this when the first white-throated sparrow’s song drifts out of the overgrown brush pile. There are words about “Poor Sam Peabody” and “Oh sweet Canada” offered by texts and experts to help us know the whistled tune, but I wonder what the sparrow means beyond what we glibly think? I envy it for the secrets it keeps. Whatever its intent, I know when I hear it that fall is full-on and winter’s monochrome cannot be far behind.

Pay attention to what flies or skulks away from your typical center-focused perception in this season. Slow down. Take your binoculars down too and gain a wider field of view in the periphery. Then, let your vision blur a bit to see more clearly. The loss in magnification will bring a differently deeper appreciation. A chance to identify with the birds, instead of just identifying them, will emerge. And don’t forget your “feel guide.” It is the most essential reference tool.