Storing September

After a month of sunny late summer days, a storm was rolling in from the Great Plains, as if to mark the transition from summer to fall.

A small group assembled at 6:30 p.m. on the steps of the Visitor’s Center at the UW Arboretum in Madison, Wisconsin, for the Fall Equinox Night Walk. The clouds were like none I had seen before—small gray bulges compressed like a 6-pack-ab repeat pattern spread across the sky, backlit by heat lightning. The naturalist guide consulted the radar and decided to go for it. She said anyone could leave, but no one bailed.

Snowy Tree Cricket

We followed a track through the oak savanna, along the edge of the prairie, and stopped to count the chirps of the snowy tree cricket. You count the number of chirps over 15 seconds, then add 40 to get the temperature in Fahrenheit. The group counted between 36 and 38 chirps for a temperature of 77°F (25°C), which was verified on a weather app. It seems odd to me that the cricket is called “Snowy,” since it is the quintessential sound of summer in North America.

Just Before Dark

As is customary on the Night Walks, just before dark, the naturalist stopped in a clearing to read a poem. Tonight’s poem was by Elizabeth Rooney, a rural Wisconsin poet from the nearby village of Blue Mounds, who wrote over 700 poems after her life-changing encounter with the Holy Spirit.

Storing September

You ask me what I did today.
I could pretend and say,
"I don't remember."
But, no, I'll tell you what I did today --
I stored September.
Sat in the sun and let the sun sink in,
Let all the warmth of it caress my skin.
When winter comes, my skin will still remember
The day I stored September.
And then my eyes --
I filled them with the deepest, bluest skies
And all the traceries of wasps and butterflies.
When winter comes, my eyes will still remember
The day they stored September.
And there was cricket song to fill my ears!
And the taste of grapes
And the deep purple of them!
And asters, like small clumps of sky . . .
You know how much I love them.
That's what I did today
And I know why.
Just simply for the love of it,
I stored September.

This is exactly what I have been doing here in Wisconsin since I arrived on Labor Day—storing sunshine, the beauty of nature, and memorable moments with family and friends.

On the Prairie

The lightning was sharper now. As I had learned in childhood, I began to count the seconds between the flash and thunder. The interval was down to 10 seconds (divided by 5), so the storm was two miles away. The naturalist quickened the pace. She took us on a single-file path through the heart of the prairie. The 9-ft-tall big bluestem grass formed an airy arch over the path with shorter Indian grass filling out the lower reaches. An afternoon shower had left a few puddles. I let the grass gently lash my face. By the time the path widened, my face was completely wet. I never knew how effortlessly you could wash your face by walking through a prairie.

Big bluestem (also known as turkey foot), 2021 photo by Lynn Childress

The Night Walk on the Fall Equinox often ends with everyone joining hands and dancing in a long snakelike train led by the naturalist, silhouetted against the sky like the figures in Bergman’s The Seventh Seal. This year, the storm broke just as we reached the end of the walk, so we all ran for shelter.

Bergman, The Seventh Seal