The Doldrums

Out of the cover and onto the concrete farm yard come a covey of curious quail. They sidle forward; clown-like, they bump into each other. They select shadows and duck beneath equipment as they make their way toward the barn door and some spilled barley. Here is where the forklift carries sacks and totes, and grain gets sprinkled around and even crushed by the tires.

Blue jays, sparrows and doves are regulars, not quail. Someone’s tame escapees for sure. The little game birds are shy but assertive, watching us as they close in on the source.

Imagine the life they knew before they got loose: a safe pen, a regular feeding time, reliable fresh water. Out here, none of that. Do they have a preference? If they found this pile of grain among the mansions, can they not find their way home?

The first really frosty morning, and the fields are open for breakfast. Just after dawn, before the crows can convene, the hawks have spread out, unmolested. Some hunt in pairs, but the harrier is generally alone. The hawk slowly courses the habitat between the crop land and the pond. It’s a perennial plot, rich with field mice and the occasional rat.

The white underside of the hawk’s long wings flash as the bird cuts a hard turn and drops out of sight. Pounced. The mice have a tunnel system for shelter and storage, but they spend a lot of time above, especially at night, enjoying the bounty beyond. It is only some mice, coming home late, sated and happy — they find themselves in personal peril.

Less like Eden and more like a reef, everything dies, everyone dines. This small paradisaical patch gives life, takes life, gives life.

The hope is that the frost’s arrival will bring an end to the autumnal doldrums. A doldrum is generally the lack of a breeze, as experienced by sailors when their wind-driven ships sat wholly becalmed; it didn’t take long for the definition to be expanded.

A doldrum in the air can cause a doldrum in the psyche. Because, just like the immobilized boat, the crews were stuck, too … and with a sense of dwindling supplies. Many displayed behavior we now recognize as depression. Migraines, mutiny, irritable behavior and inflammation.

For the farm, autumn, stubbornly lodged between 50 and 70 degrees, doesn’t stun cabbage lopers or kill aphids. Cold weather is not whisking us forward, bundling us against shortening days. It is not pressing the squirrels to sleep or telling the groundhogs to withdraw.

And yet, perhaps luckily, the farm’s doldrums are not roundly shared. Gazing upon the broccoli, not aware of dwindling supplies, she says, “Aren’t you just loving this weather?”