FORT SILL, Okla., July 28, 2016 -- I took an evening drive with my mom on the main roads in the Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge last week, and because I like to hear which birds are singing, I drove with my window down. Even at 7 p.m. the temperature was in the 90s, so the air conditioner was also on. We drove west under a near-cloudless sky, with the sun in our eyes, and no wind to set the grasses tossing like waves on a green sea. There was a stillness that caught in my heart, as it always does when the fertile land settles into middle-age. Maybe it was the a/c, but I felt the chill of autumn around the corner. A quiet grief settled in.
What struck me most was the lack of birdsong. That tends to happen when most of the baby-raising is done. It is the season of maturity. Grasses and flowers are setting seed. Crickets and grasshoppers hum a soothing melody of contentment. The song of mid-summer is that of the heat-wrapped, fruitful garden preparing for winter's fallow sleep.
My mom missed the fields of gold sneezeweed and coreopsis that were abundant in June. Then, we had seen herds of bison moving and grazing, and Texas longhorns dotting the prairie. This day we saw only a lone bison here and there, and clusters of longhorns near the road. Calves born a few months ago looked too big to be nursing, but they did anyway. Newborn longhorns rested in the grass. The yellow heat and buzzing insects set the tone for a lazy evening.
A few new wildflowers have made an appearance. At first we don't notice the Baldwin's ironweed because it is such a dark purple, and even in sunlight doesn't call attention to itself. There are a few sunflowers, too. Sadly, a lady is picking some of them alongside the road. The park ranger in me nearly stops to tell her that's not allowed in a wildlife refuge, but I just sigh and drive on.
A few dickcissels still call out "zoo, zoo zoo, zoo zoo." A handful of painted buntings send their exuberant notes tumbling over each other. A meadowlark calls out. I feel as if I have missed too much of the spring's wildness, missed the opportunity to watch scissortails fledge and waterfalls tumble into a canyon. It is a regret I feel every year, no matter where I live, as the season slides toward autumn.
Yet there is a beauty in the metamorphosis. I am thankful for even my short forays into the abundant prairie, and look forward to new surprises in the land that is the Wichitas.
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