Submitted by Nathan Bolls

I saw a yellowed leaf fall yesterday, just the barest ripple of the coming inevitable avalanche of change. Those of us who live with the seasons know the truth of the remark once made by the writer M.C. Richards: “Whatever has form is in the process still of being formed. Form is never fixed.”

We “seasoned” souls know all too well. And so it is with any year, especially for those that spend their 365 1/4 days within an Earth zone of distinctly marked seasons. Shrub and tree buds appear in winter and early spring, followed by both new twigs and baby leaves that grow gradually into full-fledged photosynthesis factories. Then they shed, only to be, in time, replaced.

The big bluestem grass on our prairies reveals the annual turning to its characteristic, and beautiful, russet brown. This annual growth of the forty or so native Flint Hill grasses is what ecologists and range management experts refer to as “primary production.” Unless a pasture is severely over-gazed, a surprisingly small percentage of primary production is utilized by large herbivores. Of course, grasshoppers and other beasties get in their licks, but much primary production will weather the winter only to be burned off in spring to make more room for eager grass shoots emerging from roots eternal.

Fall brings a diminishing variety of birds to our feeders and we hear tales of migration– although mostly only of birds from Kansas, at least during this century. We not only lose species to the South, but also never know which of the many coming from farther north will show up on our pond. Frequent checks can prove rewarding. And if any serious birders have not tuned into the migration season bird-watching possibilities on the waters below the tubes of Tuttle Creek Dam, please do so.

Those of us who have not for some time lived close to the soil may forget that Nature’s preparation for and survival of winter is complicated and fascinating process. Surprising tales can be told about how places, mammals, reptiles, fishes, amphibians—and some birds and insects—get through a Kansas winter. We hope to tell some of these tales throughout the cold months ahead, stories that can be read while sitting in the comfort offered by central heating.