Late summer has a rhythm all its own—a softer, slower pulse than the bright urgency of June. Goldfinches linger longer on their perches, the sun’s arc dips just a little lower in the sky, and the air, while still warm, carries the faintest whisper of cooler days ahead. Meadows are now stippled with goldenrod and asters, and evenings glow with the chorus of katydids and crickets.
As August leans into September, nature reminds us once again of the beauty of change. Warblers begin their quiet southbound journeys, dressed in the subdued “incognito” plumage that can frustrate even the most skilled birders. While part of the heart misses summer’s full symphony, there is a new music—its instruments changed, but its melody no less lovely.
The lively chorus of birdsong now mingles with the rasping rhythms of insects, carrying me back to my “back to school” childhood memories. I heard my first katydid of the year on July 21, calling outside my bathroom window. Dog-day harvest flies (annual cicadas) shimmer like green chrome in the heat of the day, clinging to the dry teasel stalks at Grazierville Wetland. And even as I type these words, a monarch butterfly dances among Tim’s and my flowers.
Though many “fair weather” birds have departed, the stage is far from empty. American Goldfinches perch atop sunflowers that bow in the afternoon light. Thistle blooms alongside the asters and coneflowers I treasure each year. Cedar Waxwing flocks swell once more, and somewhere a Mourning Dove may still be tending a late-season brood.
As naturalists and nature-snoopers, we understand that every ending is also a beginning. One bird departs, another arrives—and I’m already looking forward to the return of our fantastic winter birds.
Inside the latest issue of The Gnatcatcher, you’ll find an exciting lineup of fall guest speakers and field trips to enjoy. And yes, I’m already anticipating one of my favorite traditions: the Christmas Bird Count. Our Sinking Valley team always has a wonderful time—it’s a highlight of the holidays for me.
In these moments between seasons, may we hold on to what summer has given us: the warmth of long days, the laughter shared on a trail or by a riverside, and the steady heartbeat of wild places. And may we step into autumn with hope—hope that the work we do for conservation ripples outward like circles on a pond, touching lives we may never see.
Wherever you find yourself in the coming weeks—whether walking through sunlit fields, standing under a sky thick with migrating swallows, or simply watching the world change outside your window—know that your care for nature is an act of love. It is a gift to the next season, and to the next generation. Each and every one of you makes a difference.
