Fall’s Coming

I heard our first Say’s phoebe of the winter on Monday, its single plaintive cry echoing off the beehives. And the white-crowned sparrows are starting to come in—within two weeks there will be hundreds. They sing all winter long.

They have STILL not harvested the corn out back. It’s now a light wash of burnt sienna in color, if not in mass. When you go near it the weight of every single ear produces a rustle, so even when there’s no breeze you hear a permanent crackling. No wonder so many phantasmagoric movies involve cornfields. I’m not worried about phantasms, but cats do still seem to be emerging. The latest is a gray tabby kitten with spots, lovely to look at, with the long-legged gangle teenager affect.

I set a trap on Tuesday, pretty half-heartedly I must admit (what am I going to do with THIS one?). In the morning I saw I’d caught something—surely the kitten? No. It was a teenage possum, which promptly played dead when I tried to let it out. It played dead for about 1/2 hour after I’d gone back inside, its mouth open in a less than credible tooth-filled rictus and its eyes looking glassy and gone. But it slipped out while I wasn’t looking. Given the chances of catching a skunk so near the house, am I going to continue to try to catch the gray tabby?