Twas in the moon of wintertime when all the birds had fled.

Although December has arrived, the wintery weather has only flickered in and out of existence. Today I look out of my window onto golden grasses, barren trees, and a slate-gray sky while listening to the wind whine and roar around the building and sing through the window a/c unit. As I type, the setting sun breaks through the clouds along the horizon, casting brilliant feelers across the landscape and turning the branch tips into golden light. To all appearances it should be bitterly cold outside. However, the thermometer is sitting in the mid-60's. There's snow and colder temperatures in the forecast though, beginning tonight. And we need the moisture badly.

It's dark much of the time now, and I'm thankful for the windows in my new office that allow me to partake in the few hours of sunshine that we have each day. By the time I leave work at 4:30, the reds, pinks, and oranges of the setting sun are coloring the western sky and throwing the Monument into stark, silhouetted relief. Few places, aside from ocean horizons, can equal the glory of twilight horizons on the plains: that 360 degrees of gathering darkness or growing light, of days' end or beginning. This horizon also makes the high plains an excellent place for stargazing...out here you can actually watch the march of the constellations across the sky.

Late November sunrise at the Wildcat Hills.

Mornings are generally less clouded than the evenings, and this leads to excellent views of the setting full moon tinged pink by the rising sun. The cold morning air holds a crisp clarity that isn't found during the warmer mornings of summer and early fall. While not so cold that the inside of your nose freezes and your breath is snatched by the wind, mornings this time of year bring you immediately awake with their chill. This year, on every frosty morning, I'm thankful for my parking spot under the carport which allows my windshield to be ice-free every day.

Sunrise and moonset.

Full moon in the west, pale skies to the east.

"There's a pale sky in the east, all the stars are in the west. Oh and here's to all the dreamers, may our open hearts find rest. 'Cause the wing and the wheel are gonna carry us along, and we'll have memories for company, long after the songs are sung." Nanci Griffith, "The Wing and the Wheel"

The squash live next door. So far their vampiric tendencies appear to have remained dormant, but this could simply because no wombats have come wandering through. Given their size, roughly equal to a 6-month-old, I haven't yet tempted fate by testing the garden boundaries. While it's true that vampire squash don't have teeth, these specimens are sufficiently large to knock me over and do some serious damage. It's what happens when you leave them in the field past their harvest date. Something in them turns, and then you'd best leave them alone until decomposition has gained the upper hand.* 

"I've said it before-wombats aren't much good at melancholy. And there's something absurdly cheering about being attacked by a vampire squash. I mean, you gotta laugh." Digger, Chapter 3, Volume 2.

This year for Halloween I decided to try my hand at being really creative with my jack-o-lanterns. However, I ended up leaving the carving until Halloween afternoon, so really only had time for one creative carving before the trick-or-treaters turned out. My other jack-o-lantern was a plain old face, but I must say I was impressed with how my owl-o-lantern turned out. So impressed, in fact, that I kept it in my kitchen for the following week and a bit. At that point, right after I'd returned from a conference in Nebraska City, I realized that my owl had grown a beautiful 2 inch high, fuzzy gray mold colony. Currently both pumpkin and colony are living in my friend Dan's compost pile, where I hear they are befriending the neighboring worms.

Owl-o-lantern

And, in keeping with the slowing down and turning inwards of winter, here is one last update from the garden. Overall I was very happy with how my garden turned out this year, and I definitely can't complain about the number of tomatoes that I harvested!

Jewel-toned tomato

The tomato plants still stand, although now they have the appearance of having melted across their cages. I may pull them up, but for now I quite like their looks.

As many places here in the prairie will attest, I too had volunteer sunflowers this year. Planted, no doubt, by birds or squirrels, these plants poked their heads up just after my corn and beans surfaced, and proceeded to grow and bloom much of the summer. Now they are left standing for the same reasons the tomatoes are left standing: I like the way they look. There's something quieting and contemplative about the drooping head of a sunflower flower on the other side of blooming.

Even the splendor of a sunflower fades away as winter approaches.

Picked clean by hungry birds

At some point soon I hope to have some photos of the happy, chubby little dark-eyed juncos that hang out around my office. As of now they are still eluding my camera. They're well worth the wait though. And, really, who can resist chubby little songbirds?

*I first learned about vampire squash in the webcomic "Digger", and was inspired to trace this myth back to its origins. This legend originated in the Balkan region of southeastern Europe, amongst the Roma people of the region. It is also found in the Gypsy lore of the region. All types of pumpkins (or winter squash) and watermelons, if left in the field through a full moon, will turn vampire, band together, and wreak havoc. However, due to the lack of teeth, they are not greatly feared, and are easily defeated by being plunged into a pot of boiling water.