early morning fog

early morning fog

dapples the tulips with drops

of glistening dew

After four days of rain, this morning the rain makers seem to have run out of steam, having only enough energy to make tiny droplets that hang in the air as pale gray fog and accumulate on plants in the form of glistening dewdrops.
          We had planned on going to the annual Tulip Festival in Pella, a town in central Iowa founded by Dutch. The festival was scheduled to begin on Thursday, but a cold, steady rain began on Wednesday. By Thursday morning the temperature had dropped to just above freezing and further north they had 11 inches of snow. The rain continued right through Friday and Saturday, so we didn't make it to the festival this year. 
          After the fog lifted this morning, I found a little patch of tulips in town, bedazzled with dewdrops, holding their own little festival. Then in the late afternoon, a sudden cloud burst, complete with pea-sized hail. Poor, bedraggled tulips!

frost whitens the grass

frost whitens the grass,

 fog veils the golden bean field,

mist wisps rise from the pond

On the first morning of autumn, grass lawns glimmer white with a coating of frost, a thin layer of fog hovers just above the golden soybean fields and tendrils of mist rise from the farm ponds. Overnight the temperature dropped to near freezing, 37 F/2.7 C. Fortunately,  when we let the cats in, we felt how cold the evening air was and brought the jade plant inside to its winter home on the sun porch. 

          I have not seen our hummingbirds at the sugar water feeder for several days, so I assume they've begun their incredible migration south, though last year one hung around until it was really quite cold. 

          Last night we debated about whether to start a fire in the wood stove. But the house, with its thick clay/straw walls and limestone floors, held the heat gathered from the sun porch and stayed a comfortable 60 F/15.5 C. However, I did put the wool comforter on the bed. 

          I can't get enough of this beautiful season of chilly nights and crisp, sunny days, going for long rambles in the woods, reveling in the contrast of red on green leaves, the saturated orange sunsets and the pink sunrises.

faerie hankies

faerie hankies glow

lacy white in the meadow

on a foggy morn

Every day I pass the same patch of wildflowers, blind to the invisible spider webs ensconced on the dead stalks. This morning the fog reveals their secret, outlining the delicate strands with sparkling dewdrops so that the silken cups glow like little lanterns in the dim light. As children, we called them faerie hankies, secretive and ethereal, or granny's doilies, like the white lace doilies that decorated every surface in our grandmother's house.
          The spider that weaves this sheet web is even more invisible than its web. About the size of a sesame seed, with black and white striped legs, it hangs upside down between two horizontal sheets, the upper one thicker than the lower one, with the whole contraption suspended from vertical threads of silk. The spider waits in the empty space between the capture net and its own safety net. When a flying insect bumbles into the tangled obstacle course, it tumbles down on the concave mat and gets caught by the spider waiting below.
          When I return home in the afternoon, the sun has burned away the fog and the faerie hankies have vanished. But now that I know where to look, I am able to spot the tiny spider, seemingly suspended in midair between the dead stalks.

shadow, no shadow

shadow, no shadow --

fog in the morning, midday

sun, clouds at sunset

Groundhog Day. According to folklore, if it's cloudy on the second day of February, spring is on its way, but if it's sunny the woodchuck will see its shadow, bolt back into its burrow and there will be six more weeks of winter. We've hardly had any winter to begin with, so if the woodchuck saw its shadow today it would more likely mean the start of winter. 
          However, it's hard to say whether the groundhog saw its shadow today or not. The day begins with thick fog, so if the woodchuck is up early, no shadow and spring is just around the corner. But by midday the fog has cleared and the sun is shining, casting shadows everywhere and frightening the groundhog back into its burrow. In the afternoon, the delicate cirrus clouds spread and thicken into cirrostratus, obscuring the setting sun, so no shadow and we're in for snow.
          The weather report predicts snow tomorrow, but then this is the Midwest, so you never know.

fog envelopes snow

fog envelopes snow

black trees, orange buffalo grass
in an empty field

Snow is melting but the ground remains frozen. Icy water stands in pools in depressions or runs downhill into ice-clogged creeks. Moisture rises into the warmer air during the day, cools at night and condenses as fog that lasts until late morning. The wetness darkens tree bark, deepens the orange of buffalo grass, illuminates the interlacing remnants of snow. Everything appears closer, a bit out of focus, softer yet more intense, more intimate. Even the long-gone bison are there, just beyond that line of trees, hidden in the fog.

winter thaw -- white fog

winter thaw – white fog

rises up, muffling black trees,

snow-covered white lake

Yesterday the sun came out and the temperature rose above freezing, melting the ice on the road in ribbons where shafts of sunlight slashed through naked trees. This morning all that cold moisture took to the air as dense white fog, limiting my vision to a quarter of a mile on hills and less than half that in the valleys. The snow-covered lake looks like a mirror reflection – white above, white below. I walk in a hush through soft snow, stepping on animal tracks blurred and spread until they are barely recognizable. Everything is muffled, both light and sound.