It is the first Tuesday in September, and village children are off to school, walked there (or just to the bus stop) by nannies, proud parents, big brothers and sisters, and occasionally family pets. I have known many of the kids since they traveled about in prams, and here they are going off to school. Dear me, how time flies.
This morning, we watched yellow school buses trundling along village streets, something not seen in our travels for a few months. The cheerful crossing guard who has presided over a nearby corner for years was back on duty, and we compared notes on how our summers had gone. He fished and played a lot of golf. Beau and I weeded, watered and pruned. We were both happy with how things had gone this time around. Before the wretched tumble, that is.
The youngsters wear jackets in confetti colors, carry backpacks and lunch boxes in pink, turquoise and lime green, tote miniature umbrellas patterned in flowers or bunnies or polka dots. They bloom like pint-sized peonies out in the street, and watching them from the window, I feel like doing a little blooming too.
Only a short distance away, other brightly arrayed offspring have hatched out in village hedgerows and thickets, and they are strengthening their glorious wings for the long journey south to begin in a week or two. I shall be sad when they depart.
When Monarchs alight on fall asters in the garden, the combination of orange, purple and gold is dazzling. Every butterfly is a stained glass jewel, a wild, vivid and breathtaking wonder. Lacking a clearly visible black pheromone spot on the rear wing, the butterfly at the top of this post may be female, but I am not sure. Sometimes the spot is not visible in profile.
There are vibrant colors everywhere we look in early September, and they are a sumptuous treat for old eyes. It doesn't matter whether the riotous tints are on Virginia creepers, monarch butterflies, coneflowers or tiny raincoats - they invite us to kick up our heels and dance, or more likely just stumble and lurch about.
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