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Show Mtmnnteiiim aiDiiii '''A- N0 by Nan Cfaalat It's time to reset your biological alarm clock I didn't have to set my alarm clock once this summer. With the windows open, I could hear the first stirring of traffic on the highway and the restless bellowing of my landlord's cows. My neighbor's rooster regularly sounded off at 6 a.m. and shortly afterwards my dog would scratch on the door for her morning milkbone. By that time the sunlight was pouring through the parlor and it was easy to get out of bed. But this week it has been a different story. All of us have overslept. The cows have been content to huddle quietly together in the frosted field and even the rooster has been staying in the barn a half hour longer before venturing into the brisk morning air to let out a subdued cockadoodledoo. I have sleepy recollections of half opening my eyes to a darkened window and closing them again til 7 a.m. This will never do. So I have resigned myself to setting the alarm again, to closing the windows at night and searching for slippers in the morning. No more sipping coffee in the garden or barefooting it in the kitchen. Summer is over. Tomorrow the alarm will go off at 6 a.m. I'll make coffee in dim predawn light, let the dog in and watch her steamy breath while fighting the urge to get back under the covers. Then we will walk out to the garden to survey the frost damage which began last Saturday and has been progressively creeping through the tomato patch. When the sun hits Mt. Timpanogos it will be time to head for work. The road to Park City is strewn with signs of fall. There are still lights on at Shady Lane Dairy and the aspens on Hoyt's Peak have begun to yellow. The cranes are beginning to gather for their flight south and the blue herons are on their way past Rockport. There are clouds of mist over the lake and the water temperature has dropped significantly. Across Brown's Pass the purple sage is fading to a muted green, hawks are perched on the electric poies waning ior wiauapcvuug jackrabbits and the sheepherders are beginning to move to lower pastures. It all has the ominous ring of winter. It seems that every season comes with gains and loses. This fall, the gains are a generously wet growing season and two loads of wood already stashed by the shed. The loss is the death of the barn owl which has graced our landlord's ranch for the past two years. He made his first appearance two winters ago during a bitter cold spell. That morning he stayed in the cottonwood above the driveway until the sun was too bright and was forced to spend the day squinting at us as we watched his majestic head turn round and round. As soon as the sun dipped behind the west hills he spread his wings and headed off for a night of hunting. He spent most days hidden in the shadows at the top of the barn and we didn't see or hear much from him again until spring. Then, when the snow started to melt, we could hear him hooting for a mate, or maybe it was just spring fever. Late this summer he was joined by a noisy screech owl and the two would emerge from the barn together at sunset. It was a breathtaking sight. The screech owl would keep his distance on the top of the barn but our old friend liked to fly down into the corral and land on the cattle chute. One night we walked up to him until his half-lidded stare made the hair on our necks stand up. Behind him the clouds turned pink, then orange and deep lavender. A week later we found his body on the ground beside the barn. One leg was missing which led us to believe that he had been caught in a muskrat trap. I sat down on a nearby f encepost and it was there that my six-year-old neighbor Nashon found me deep in depression over the loss of our owl. "That just happens sometimes," he said with a wise nod of his head. But I still can't help wishing that old owl was still around. |