I have a book called "Hal Borland's Twelve Moons of the Year," a collection of short essays that Borland, a nature writer, contributed to The New York Times back in the '70s. There's an essay for each day. Today's is about the changing seasons:
Frost has come to rural fields and gardens and the fires of life burn low in the insect world. The bugs and beetles are nearing the end of their time. Crickets and katydids seem to sense it; when you hear them on a warm evening now there is a new sense of urgency in their calls. Bumblebees sleep late, sometimes in the shelter of a tousled zinnia blossom, and wait for the sun to warm their blood enough so they can fly. Most butterflies have had their day and slumber as hostages to tomorrow in the egg, the cocoon, or as caterpillars.I do seem to see fewer bugs now. I haven't noticed any fireflies in our back courtyard, and the big houseflies that congregated inside our lobby doorway seem to have disappeared. It's hardly cold - in fact, at the moment we're having a bit of Indian Summer, and I doubt there's frost on any rural field. But the bugs still must know the season is changing.