Did you know that a group of dragonflies is called a fetch? No? Neither did I until yesterday, when Mr. Tomato came on the air and pointed this out through a quiz. Mr. Tomato is often a guest on my CJOB radio show and he always looks forward to stumping me with an arcane question.
I guess it would be correct to say that we have several fetches of dragonflies in our garden this year. The air is thick with them at certain times of the day; but no mosquitoes!
I wonder what this fetching group is eating? Perhaps little aphids on the wing.
They swoop and shimmer in the air and sometimes, they rest for a moment on the orange umbrella above me.
Butterflies are busy too, and so are the bees. It’s that kind of summer. I think it rained a bit last night, but not enough to upset the petunias. It has hardly rained at all since the first two weeks in June and now August is upon us. Poorly watered lawns are turning brown. Cracks are appearing in the earth and beside house foundations. It’s mighty strange considering the massive rush of water that poured into the province from the south and the west this spring causing all sorts of damage to farmlands and cottage owners. And still, in some places, water lies heavy on the land.
Yet, in this garden, it is heaven. The flowers, so cosseted by me and Glenn, are blooming happily if not as profusely as in some years. The filipendula have meager pink heads and the salvia bloomed only briefly. I have nicotiana everywhere, sending its heady scent into the morning air.
(A big gray squirrel has just invaded my little Red squirrel’s territory. Shoo! Come Red and chase this interloper away!)
The smokebush (zone 5!) is five feet tall this year and I am hoping it will bloom for the first time after seven years. The phlox seems happy enough, and the lamb’s ears are irresistible to the bees.
There is a lovely breeze this morning. My tiny wind chimes fill the air with a symphony of gentle sound, punctuated by bird trill and sometimes a scolding from the squirrel. Far away, if you listen, you can hear cars passing by on the perimeter highway, but this is white noise that is overridden by the soughing of the wind through the leaves of the giant cottonwood in the front yard. It is interesting how the sounds change with the quality of the light as the day wears on. The air that was so peaceful and quiet earlier is, as mid morning approaches, picking up pace and urgency. But still, the breeze in the trees quells this, neutralizing the energy of the emerging day. It seems to say, stop and play. It’s a holiday.
I can only obey.
What luxury to spend the morning in my garden as Claire, my granddaughter who arrived on Friday, sleeps the careless sleep of the nine-year-old. She will be up and looking for pancakes soon enough.
The sparrows are at the birdbath having a drink and the finches have appeared for a morning meal of nyger. Little Red is back defending his territory.
The garden symphony plays on.