I’ve been sketchy in returning calls, replying to emails and texts. I’m showing up late for meetings. On days like today, I linger in the sunset rays on my front porch as hints of a cooling night breeze tickle goldenrod and aster. I pace and watch and listen and sniff the air with increasing interest in the leafy shadows just beyond my yard.
I am restless. I am changing.
All of this distraction started in earnest a few days ago. It was when September first showed up, flashing its coy smile on the heels of a not-too-bad summer but one that had still overstayed its welcome. Really, though, it doesn’t matter how a summer plays out—wet, dry, hot, mild—I always fall victim to September’s charms. September is the beginning. September is the opening scene for nature’s last act of the year, a grand production in the making since last winter closed the curtains with a frigid flourish and spring’s glorious, budded reopening.
Though the gray squirrels are making an awful racket among the hickories, barking and swishing and gnawing through hulls to get at those sweet morsels tucked away, fall’s overture is overall muted. Those summer songbirds still hanging around only murmur now and then. The buzzing katydids and cicadas fade. And suddenly one day, this day, crickets are the only musicians left on stage.
Since September rolled in, the visual aesthetic of the woods has changed as well. The vibrant greens of the growing time gently fade into drabber tones. The leaves are nearly spent. The life force pulsing with urgent verdancy only weeks ago ebbs lower with each minute of daylight lost. Red oak and post oak shift from emerald to olive while the sumac and black gum are already ablaze with crimson.
And then there is just something different about the slanted sunlight, honeyed and thick with anticipation. I feel the beams pressing on me, prodding me as they slide across my shoulders and probe the deepening shadows like the warm golden fingers of an old and almost forgotten god.
I am lost in thoughts of photosynthesis, of root systems snaking into the dark forest soil, of sap coursing through xylem and phloem, of sunlight warming my bare skin, and the palpable essence of wild deities. When from somewhere beyond the woodline the whoosh of a snorting whitetail tells me I’m not the only one watching and waiting.
I am not the only restless soul.
The dimming days are recasting the deer, too. Physical and emotional changes are triggered within the deer’s bodies and minds as the sun’s hot grip weakens. They morph into wholly different creatures. Summer’s auburn warm-weather wear is traded for the hollow-haired soft browns and timber gray of winter coats. Inverse to the plants, a decreasing photoperiod means more energy for the deer. While chloroplasts feed on light to build more plant structures that lead to more plants, pineal glands at the base of a deer’s brain use the growing darkness to enhance deer structures that lead to more deer. Without getting too deep into the biology, lengthening shadows break open the hormonal floodgates.
So if during the heady days of fall you think the deer sometimes act like teenagers, it’s because they are teenagers, in a sense. They’re essentially going through puberty every year, drunk on estrogen and testosterone, and driven to restlessness by one of those most primal and urgent forces. Combine this natural steroid juicing with fall’s abundance of purpling, browning, ripening, falling-at-their-feet food, and the deer’s gaunt warm-weather bodies fill out with plumpness and muscle. The does grow round as pumpkins and antsy as kids on the first day of school. Bucks grow shoulders and an attitude.
The antlers growing on a buck’s skull, malleable and velvet-encased when they sprouted last spring, are now hardened bone. As the fuzzy covering dries and withers with the grass, it falls off mostly on its own. But those flaring fires in the buck urge him to polish his weaponry even as the antlers are still wet with blood. With the velvet off, he is a bubbling cauldron of passion, rage, and jealousy. All of his energy is acutely focused on fighting for girls, pursuing girls, and finally getting girls. But the girls aren’t keen on him quite yet. So he takes it out on the saplings for a few days until his fires cool to a simmer.
The young bucks seem to get stuck in that phase of high frustration throughout autumn, hurrying and pushing and generally being obnoxious. But those old boys, the ones who’ve been around the block a few times, know to steady themselves. They’ve accrued piles of patience along with their years and understand that the girls will be ready only when the girls are ready.
I’ve gained patience along with my years, too. My predator heart still throbs at the sounds, sights, and smells of this teasing time. While I pace the porch like a wolf in a cage—driven by another primal and urgent force—I know the time is not quite right. Like the bucks rubbing cedars, I busy myself and focus my energies on preparation for the crisp days ahead. There are still treestands to hang and a bowstring that needs waxing and maps to pore over for better access routes. I fling more arrows at the bag target, cementing my form for that sublime moment when a plan comes together and my nerves fall apart. There’s much to be done, but mostly I must wait.
I’ll pluck muscadines before the possums can get them and watch monarchs wing through the yard. I’ll stalk squirrels on the ridge and throw poppers to bass in the creek. Waiting with September isn’t so bad, but I’m largely in agreement with the old bucks.
That first frosted morning can’t come soon enough.
This made the waiting easier, my friend.