moth | Morning Rounds

Amy-the-Fish, Finn, and a Progeny circle like sharks a moth stranded in the pond. Pollen speckles the surface.

I know better than to intervene in a natural contest between predator and prey. Just last week I read about the public outcry when a baby eaglet died in the nest on a live webcam stream, and the complications that ensued from a previous attempt to fix the broken wing of another webcam raptor baby. The more we are able to see the more there is not to like, sometimes. Rarely do I try to save prey from predator when I have the chance, even a baby bunny from one of my dogs because by the time I know about it it’s usually too late for the bunny.

Amy-the-Fish is fierce in her determination to capture this morsel.

More fish enter the fray as the moth continues to barely escape their snapping jaws.

This time I think for sure the moth is toast.

And it manages to climb onto a rush.

It’s been a fascinating five minutes for me, frustrating for Amy-the-Fish and her friends, and no doubt terrifying for the moth. At this point I figure I am merely an agent of the moth’s destiny when I dip in a finger and lift it to the safety of a sagebrush well away from the water. Sometimes you just have to do what you can.

Drawn or spooked from its daytime lair by the sprinkler, sphinx moth visits early morning at hardy plumbago.

Things fall apart. We know that. Not nearly as popular in literature is the equally valid theme that Things Pile On. More work, more play, more food, more deep reflection. More witnessing to the wonder of Creation. My religion is Life. To all the living things! So much has happened in the garden in just this one week.

The first Sunday in Fall. True autumn has arrived. I know it by the hardy plumbago, Ceratostigma plumbaginoides.

A carpet of bright blue flowers, red seeds, and glossy green leaves makes this harbinger of autumn a sweet surprise each year.

The first fall I’ve had here in years. I will fall into Autumn gently, a single leaf, twisting, settling, to ground.

The leek flower continues to move toward seed.

“Look what you’ve done here!” someone says to me. “Look what you’ve done with the water you move, from place to place, bed to bed, shrub to tree. Look what you’ve done here, moving water randomly.”

I feel congratulated. I feel blessed. I feel comprehended. Every day, every day the garden gives me something. Whether I’m there to receive it or not. Every day this garden gives: a new beauty, a new insight, a new manifestation of divine light.

All at once the almonds cracked open on the tree. Almost all of them!

Friday evening I gathered them, and husked them.

They gave up their seeds to me, split fruit yielding shielded nuggets.

Saturday morning I shelled them, revealing tender thin-skinned meats, moist and milky with a delicate crunch.

All morning I keep finding almond husks beneath my feet. Chipmunks are finding the last few nuts, too high for me to reach.

Finally, not for the faint of heart: I caught sight of a grasshopper on the pepper, thought it was two hooked up. But no! I stopped my grabbing hand in time and ran for the camera.