On a warm September afternoon with little wind, I walked the path to Lake Defiance at Moraine Hills State Park to complete my last dragonfly and damselfly survey of the season.
How different it was compared with June, when several pumpkin seed fish were making nests in the mud bottom at the shallow edge of the lake, as a long, slim, black snake slithered in to attempt to snatch them. Meanwhile, Halloween pennant dragonflies, wearing their orange and black colors, mated on the wing just above.
This day near the end of September, one small fish slowly moved about in the shallows. Not a single dragonfly nor damselfly flew by to be counted. I sat on a bench off a boardwalk overlooking Lake Defiance and breathed slowly in and out.
A woman was sketching lily pads, thousands of which stretched across the glacial lake. But this time of year all the white flowers atop the lily pads were gone, and some of the lily pads were turning yellow and brown, curling at the edges.
The crown feather of a great blue heron lay still next to one of the lily pads, and I had yet to see one dragonfly. A hazy end-of-summer aroma gently wafted.
In the stillness of September, it’s easy to dwell on endings. The sensitive ferns were shriveling and turning yellow, surrounded by the small orange jewelweed flowers that were wilting in the drought.
All the purple flowers of swamp loosestrife had vanished, leaving some red leaves that would soon turn brown and die. Turtleheads were past their prime, their closed white flowers taking on imperfection as they wilted to yellow. Even the cranes calling from a distance sounded soft, uninspired. Their young have all been raised, and the family will leave when the snow comes.
But then a common yellowthroat, a warbler species with bright yellow body and a black eye mask, spewed out his mating song, reminding me once again that nature is not a beginning nor an ending, but rather a continuum. If you look and listen closely you can always find something breathtaking outdoors.
Suddenly what I hadn’t noticed walking down the boardwalk while lamenting the dearth of dragonflies, now shone bright and clear. Bouquets of asters were everywhere. The soft purple petals and yellow centers of smooth blue asters gathered in clumps as if they were ready to be placed in a vase.
At least six different species of asters bloomed that day, in various sizes, some with tiny white petals and others with large deep purple petals.
Flitting like tiny Tinkerbells just above the duckweed in the cattail marsh were several damselflies, difficult to identify without a magnifying glass or binoculars.
An adult male eastern forktail, just about an inch long, perched on a cattail stalk long enough for me to enjoy its lovely green eyes and soft blue segment at the end of the abdomen. A photo of another damselfly revealed later that the less common fragile forktail, with a colored stripe shaped like an exclamation point on its thorax, had also been there.
A marsh wren chattered from the cattails, hopping just once into view in between loitering among the lower vegetation, actively seeking food.
Sometimes, what happens to humans during the change of seasons ranges from joy that spring has arrived to sadness that summer is leaving. But there is joy to be experienced every day outdoors along with the sadness of the loss of a common sight like dragonflies.
Indeed, the flowers of the swamp loosestrife that enticed swallowtail butterflies to sip its nectar, were gone, but the plant was now producing seeds that will provide food to migratory ducks coming later this fall.
As September nears its end, the American goldfinch continues to sing its cheery notes. I breathe in and out, knowing nature reveals itself in so many ways as the seasons wax and wane.
Sheryl DeVore has worked as a full-time and freelance reporter, editor and photographer for the Chicago Tribune and its subsidiaries. She’s the author of several books on nature and the environment. Send story ideas and thoughts to sheryldevorewriter@gmail.com.
