Autumn settles in. Mother Nature peels back her bedcovers.

The Chesapeake Bay Indian summer feels kaput.

Air and water temperatures drop.

Wild rice matures on the marshy banks of rivers and creeks.

Migrating flocks of waterfowl from the north pass through these parts. Shorebird nests are empty.

Rock and bluefish grow fat on smaller fish near the Chesapeake Bay’s surface. Seagulls and terns swoop down to share. Smart fisherman cast their lines in that direction.

Crab harvests peak. The Chesapeake’s most famous crustacean will spend the cold months buried in the deep, primordial mud at the bottom of the bay. Oysters and clams begin to slow down their metabolism and yellow eels turn silver before heading out to sea for spawning.

Snapping turtles are in the egg hatching stage of reproduction, and even in the worst of weather to come, muskrats never stop having babies.

Time goes on.

We get older with change, but there are constants in this world.

The 18^th century French essayist Montaigne wrote, “Let us permit nature to have her way: she understands her business better than we do.”

Seasons change.

It’s nature’s way.