‘Why bother about winter?’ says Aesop’s grasshopper to the ant.
Southern Vermont has enjoyed a stretch of days that half convince you winter can’t ever come. The only white in the deep blue sky comes from contrails of planes holding to the Manchester Beacon.
Wild flowers have joined in the euphoria. Ancient apples seem impossibly burdened.
This reincarnation of Aesop’s grasshopper tries to recolor green the reddish tinge the upper slopes of the Greens and Taconics have gradually assumed. The messy molts of the male goldfinches to protective drab he tries to shake away.
But the dozens of finches gorging on the thistle feeders where one or two snacked two weeks ago make even the delusional think about wood and woolens … and winter.
Then I look at the sky, feel the soft air, and tell myself, ‘This time, it’s different.’