Labor Day Fire

 Labor Day, a drizzly afternoon. First fire of the season in the fireplace. A spot of wine in the glass.

A fire sometimes doesn't roar. It purrs. It murmurs like a brook, irregular but always keeping within the same range, punctuated by an occasional sharp report, as a reminder that it's not something to be trifled with.

As the fire muttered and stuttered I sat on the couch thumbing diligently through the latest L.L. Bean catalog. I wouldn't normally do such a thing, but a $10 coupon was burning a hole in my pocket. Flannel shirts, bathrobes, sheepskin slippers, sturdy duffle bags, faux Amish quilts. Nothing jumped out at me. "So much more than just a sweatshirt," the copy reads. Really? How so?

This morning we left the house at 7:45, headed for Sherburne National Wildlife Reserve, an hour away to the northwest. I didn't expect to see much in the way of bird life, though the open fields there are peppered with sandhill cranes in family groups, and there are quite a few pelicans and trumpeter swans milling around in the bigger sloughs.

Among my favorite sightings was a female harrier—rich dark brown with a white rump patch—moving low across a field. Also a red-breasted nuthatch, which I associate with wintertime. We saw one exquisite pied-billed grebe, fresh and fuzzy, comical and proud.

But my favorite bird sighting was a flock of blue-winged teal dashing across the sky above a pond. This duck nests more commonly in Minnesota than any other, I think, but I rarely get a chance to see a whole flock, their pale blue wing-panels flashing.

The most arresting sight on the morning, however, was a grassy field strewn with pale yellow goldenrod and pale purple asters, with a border of poison ivy—already turning red—in the foreground. There were patches of wild sage, pale green, here and there, too. The field was a delight to the eye, mesmerizing in a quiet way. It has texture, color, balance, but no discernible pattern. Nature at its best.

There are many such fields at Sherburne. Some have asters but no goldenrod. Others are dominated by baby bluestem or sunflowers. And there are also a few open woods full of gnarly oaks, widely spaced.

Most of the summer birds are gone, or lying low, but we spent two hours traversing the Six-Mile Drive, wondering why some asters are big while others are small, and probing the muddy reeds with our binoculars, hoping to catch a glimpse of an elusive wren or rail.

The drive home placed us in the midst of monstrous pickup trucks and families returning down Highway 169 from Labor Day weekend at the lake, but little matter. The fire is burning here in the fireplace, and I smell the sweet aroma of a French tomato pie with basil and gruyere cheese that Hilary just pulled out of the oven.