Hairst*

We approach the autumnal equinox. The full moon of September, the Harvest Moon, has just waned.  Before artificial lighting, its glow allowed farmers to take advantage of a dry spell and harvest their crop well into the night.

Driving home under its light, I came across a newly dead fox, no doubt hit by a car. It looked young, not much more than a cub with its soft red fur and black ears and socks. Part of the dispersal as the young foxes move out seeking territories and mates for themselves, this one hadn’t developed the skills needed to survive alongside humans. Few of the local community would mourn the death of a fox but it did make me feel sad.

The next day, I did have a chance to save a furry creature from the wheels of the cars when I found a black hairy caterpillar, a hairy oobit, crossing the road and ushered it into the verge. Hopefully it will grow up to be, I think, a leopard moth.

The fields have a roughly shaved look, and the last of the swallows have departed. Only last week, the tail-enders of this year’s brood were sweeping over the stubble like tiny jet fighters and then, in one day, they were gone on a journey already taken by their parents to a place they have never seen. How do they manage it?

As they move out, the long straggling skeins of geese come honking in from the north.

The hedgerows are flushed with haws and berries awaiting the return of those other visitors, the redwings and fieldfares and. hopefully, waxwings.

Haws, Hips and Scrogs

The warm sun still brings out the butterflies and dragonflies around the loch but after it sets the twilight has the cold touch of coming winter. Once more, the year is on the turn.

*Hairst,  the Scots for autumn is synonymous with harvest. Hairst-home is winter.