Towering cornfields obscure roadside sightlines, purple loosestrife and goldenrod color marshes and scalped-hayfield rims, festive midways are clogged, and Labor Day has passed.

Autumn is here. Wow! Where did summer go?

Not complaining. Fall has for many decades been my favorite season – ever since I hung up my spikes, glove and bat from the old American pastime that begins in spring, the season of optimism, mischievous youthful exuberance and nesting.

Now, with the crack of the bat far in my rearview, even my passion for the upland bird-hunting game that replaced it has greatly diminished. Attribute that to physical wear and tear brought by stubborn refusal to heed orthopedic surgeons’ warnings about my battered left knee and other things. Even with my trusty, old, 16-gauge, Jean Breuil side-by-side back in action – thanks to the People’ Republic of Montague Center’s gunmaker extraordinaire, Richard Colton – it’s not the same.

But why go there? Aging’s inevitable, and swamp-busting is not forever. I accepted that reality long ago. These days, I satisfy my strong hunting instinct by chasing information instead of pheasant, grouse and woodcock, turkeys and deer, trout and shad. It’s no less fulfilling. Same game, different playing field.

But why digress? Back to fall’s arrival.

It seems like yesterday I was watching and writing about that great horned owl nest up the road. Now those nestlings peering down at me from their temporary April home in a dead white pine are casting large, predatory shadows as they swoop down to my lawn for rabbits, squirrels and whatever else tickles their dietary fancy. So far, they’ve spared an animated black squirrel I’ve been watching since spring. While I do hope that little critter escapes those owls’ talons, I sure do wish they’d get a grip on those damn chipmunks that have thus far robbed me of every last one of my Roma tomatoes as they ripen.

I keep waiting for the pilfering to stop. The bold little rodents that have been staying just out of reach since spring are industrious, indeed. Secretive, too. They climb two tomato stalks tied to a 10-foot rebar pole pinned to my barn wall and, starting at the nippled base, devour the oblong tomatoes, leaving only a stem and thin cap. It’s annoying, to say the least. What remains resembles an inverted mushroom.

It’s a problem I’ve coped with for a few years now. I savor those heirloom tomatoes, whose storied past date back to the garden of an infamous Springfield mobster gunned down in the Mount Carmel Club parking lot. Ideal for spaghetti sauce and quick, stovetop marinara, they’re versatile and ain’t bad atall in salads, BLTs and whatever else you choose to use them for. Unlike Big Boys and other popular garden varieties, the seeds from this dense, meaty fruit don’t squirt out the side and onto your shirt when biting into a thick sandwich.

Chipmunks apparently appreciate them, too. Which reminds me. It was just this summer that I finally figured out they were the culprit. My neighbor told me chipmunks were eating her tomatoes, too In the past I had suspected squirrels and more so woodchucks, which seem to find their way to my property, taking refuge in the barn cellar, below the woodshed outhouse, and the crawlspaces under the front stone terrace and my home’s 18^th-century western wing.

The last woodchuck I saw in my yard was way back in early April. So, I must assume something killed it. Maybe a neighbor’s domestic dog, a coyote, bobcat, fisher or, hey, perhaps even a great horned owl feeding its young. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if the so-called tiger of the Northwoods is capable of killing a woodchuck.

Other than that, it was an unusually quiet summer on the wildlife-sighting front. Far fewer deer on my daybreak walks around the Upper Meadows of Greenfield, and no sign of bears since that close spring encounter I reported a couple of months ago. Plus, curiously, I have not seen a turkey here in months, none of the typical summer hens and broods I’m accustomed to seeing. I still suspect those great horned owls may have something to do with that.

Which doesn’t mean deer, bears and turkeys have dwindled in my wildlife-friendly neighborhood. Just that I, personally, haven’t seen as many as usual. Sometimes there’s no explanation for such things. Luck of the draw, perhaps?

Just the other day at the coffee shop I spoke to a fella I often bump into in the morning. He told me he had in recent days seen at least 10 deer, including a big, handsome buck in a field where I used to walk daily with my gun dogs. The sighting occurred a quarter-mile or so from the southern perimeter of my morning walk. So, the deer are never far away, whether or not I happen to see them.

My friend and near neighbor agrees with me that he’s seen fewer deer and turkeys in his expansive backyard thus far this year. Yes, he’s seen occasional deer and a few turkeys, but nothing of note compared to previous summers. That said, he did tell of his nextdoor neighbors returning from their Maine camp a couple of months ago and discovering bear damage to a birdfeeder and a vulture nibbling at something along the wood line.

Upon closer investigation the following day, one of the homeowners investigated the scene and found the picked-over remains of a fawn’s hindquarter. What killed it is anyone’s guess. The bear? A bobcat? Fisher? Coyotes? Then again, perhaps it was roadkill scavenged in a safe place.

That’s all for now. We’ll see what the leaf-peeping, woodstove season brings.