Yesterday I awoke to a John Milton poem; the morning, "glist'ring with dew, fragrant the fertile earth, After soft showers..." I grabbed my camera and headed outside, while Henry, my doodle dog whined inside at being left out of the excitement.
This was no ordinary dew, it was to paraphrase another poet, a world molded of fire and dew. The lower autumn sun illuminated the hedge while streaming through the woods, iconic rays beaming like a bad Easter card.
Dew on arborvitae hedge The Garden Buzz
Strange that we now build rain gardens to filter water back into our concrete-covered earth. (It reminds me of the email forwarded among gardeners that tells of God being confused and amused by the mortals raking up the fallen leaves, and then in turn, buying and heaving bags of mulch to dress their gardens.)
During ancient times in England they built dew ponds on the highlands, collecting the precious moisture to water their cattle. Shallow saucers were dug, then lined with straw, clay, chalk and soot, creating an impervious and insulated basin that once filled, according to legend, never ran dry
I had heard of the dew ponds before and doubted their existence or at least, efficiency. Really, dew drops? But brush against that sparkling evergreen and feel your pajamas sag with the heaviness of the liquid. Apparently it is possible to harvest atmospheric humidity from rivers in the sky, just google air wells and fog fences.
Dew on Picea (Tollymore) The Garden Buzz
Henry meanwhile was pillaging the house; chewing up keys, discarded DQ cups and what's left of his bed. When he bounded outside he pushed his snout to the lawn and like a Hoover, vaccuumed the dew from the grass. I bet it tasted sweet.