The prairie is brown now. As my county extension agent promised, the crab grass died with the first hard frost. Dropping millions of seeds before letting go. A gift for future years.

I mowed off most of the plant residue on the prairie, leaving only one swath of tall crab grass. A ground cover experiment for the winter.

The mown area reveals little flashes of green. Prairie forbs that took hold in spite of the crab grass and continue to thrive in spite of the frost. And dandelions. The dandelions can yet be treated with glyphosate, though dandelion seeds are as persistent as crab grass. The common sunflowers that began blooming at the start of October, continue to push forth new blossoms, tiny flashes of yellow against the brown.

In mid October, my husband and I visited a prairie ‘remnant’ that is part of the Honey Creek Resort on Rathbun Lake. A remnant is a bit of Iowa’s original prairie that somehow escaped the plow all these years – amazing since 99% of Iowa’s original prairie has given way to agricultural production.

As we walked the trail through this original bit of Iowa landscape, I watched birds soaring high over the trees, felt the breeze that rippled through the Big Bluestem, listened hard for the echo of bygone horses, buffalo, Native Americans and pioneer settlers.

I could not help myself. I gathered a few of the seeds from this remnant prairie – grasses and flowers. Is this legal? I expect not. But I just had to bring some seeds – descendants from Iowa’s original prairie – home with me.

Scattering those seeds, I imagine years from now walking through Big Bluestem, watching birds soar over head, listening for the echo of Iowa’s bygone prairie right in my own front yard.

Snow on October 10. This was unexpected. When a weather occurrence is out of the ordinary, I always think, ‘Do I remember this happening before?’ Though I do not remember snow as early as October 10, I’m sure it has.

What I can remember is the snow/ice storm Des Moines experienced on Halloween weekend 15 or more years ago. Sitting in my kitchen, I watched as limbs – big limbs – fell to the ground, as mature trees split. Each time a limb or tree gave in to the weight, the sound was unexpected, startling, frightening. It cracked like rifle shots, exploded like canon fire. I was grateful to already be home, grateful I was not skating I-235 with other downtown workers on the evening commute. The clean up was heart and back breaking. All those trees damaged or gone entirely.

This early snow is causing none of that devastation. At least here in Des Moines. In fact, it’s already melting. The cold that is predicted to follow tonight will likely kill my impatiens even though they’re covered. Oh, well. We try to hold on to summer for one more day, knowing this is not something we can actually control.

Generally, I enjoy the first snow of the season. This was just a little early. But I get to see the first snow on my prairie and enjoy it. A gentle snow on Saturday that will melt by Monday. And I know to be grateful.

A friend asked if I planned to mow the prairie off. It hadn’t occurred to me until she said something. I had been thinking to let the snow and rain mat the grass down to mulch. The prairie plants appear to push through no matter what, though it takes longer with grass competition.

Once she planted the idea, though, it took root and grew until I found myself on the tractor headed for the prairie. Not to mow it all off. More to see what I’d find if I mowed some.

My first swath followed a curving line that approximated the line of a path I imagined walking while Big Bluestem wave over my head and Gray-headed Coneflowers blink in the sun (three years from now). It took two swipes to get the long tendrils of wiry crab grass clipped off. Sure enough, small prairie plants were hidden under all that shade.

I grew braver, mowing swaths in other directions, each time making sure to cut around the still-blooming Partridge Peas and avoiding by a wide margin my newly blooming Common Sunflower.

At one point, I looked back over my shoulder. There in an area I’d just mowed was a rabbit. Not injured, but scared out into the open by the tractor. I stopped at the edge of the prairie, got off the tractor and walked back, to within a few feet of the rabbit. It never moved. Just huddled still, looking at me with its black eyes. I walked all around that rabbit and it never moved. I had anticipated prairie plants under the crab grass. I had not been thinking of prairie animals.

To be honest, I’m not a fan of rabbits. More often than not, they’re nibbling at some plant I’d rather keep – like the broccoli and kohlrabi in my spring garden. I have no doubt this was not the only rabbit in my prairie. It occurred to me it might be a mama with a late-season nest of babies hidden elsewhere.

After considering that rabbit for quite some time, I stopped mowing all together. After a hard freeze, I may go back and finish the task. But for now, I’ll just let nature take it course. My prairie should have diversity of flora and fauna. Even if it means rabbits.

At this time of the year, I think of the end of the garden, the end of flowers. Roll up the hose, clean off the spent flower stems, bring house plants back inside. Fall coming on. Even winter. Who would not think this way after the cold, wet, wind of the past few days?

Most of the prairie has turned brown. The crab grass has sown its millions of seeds. The barnyard grass, too. But my prairie is full of surprises and not ready to give up yet.

This flower popped open just in time for my October prairie update. It is, to the best of my flower identification ability, a Common Sunflower. When I am so eager for, and excited by, each new flower, I am dismayed to find someone has labeled my latest pleasure ‘common.’ To me, it is anything but, coming as it does when I am chomping at the bit for each new plant, each colorful bloom.

Speaking of chomping, this plant has several buds. It had even more before some foraging night creature nibbled a few stems. Ah well. All God’s creatures have to eat.

Remarkably to me – most likely because I don’t know any better – the Partridge Peas, those first yellow flowers on fern-like stems to appear in my prairie back in June, are still putting out new blossoms. A pretty delight.

Though I may be moving along in my mind to the next seasons, fall and winter, it is fun to see that my prairie does not think it is too late for flowers. Yet another prairie reminder not to rush ahead too quickly. It’s not too late to enjoy this moment.

Four years ago, some friends began to restore several acres of prairie near their country home. This summer, as we walked the paths they’d cut through their prairie, Big Bluestem waved above our heads, the alien-looking seedpods of Rattlesnake Master peeked out closer to the ground, Yellow and Purple Coneflowers, and Wild Bergamot added bright color to the landscape. My friends urged me to come back this fall and gather seeds to spread in my own prairie. At the time, they didn’t know that they would be leaving their prairie behind.

But by the time I went to gather seeds, they were packing their house for a move into town. As I walked through their prairie this time, capturing the seed heads of Sideoats Grama, Compass Plants, and a number of plants I liked but could not identify, I was overtaken, stopped in my tracks, by what I can only describe as homesickness.

My friends leaving their beautiful prairie. The coming winter. The inevitable march of time. I wanted to grab hold and keep it all in place. Hold on to what I know instead of facing the uncertainty of the future. I couldn’t, of course, and I walked on, gathering seeds until my hands could hold no more.

This week, I took the seeds from my friends’ established prairie and scattered them throughout my beginning prairie. Even with only a few months of prairie restoration experience to my credit, I have faith that some of those seeds will take hold – maybe next year, maybe the year after – and fight their way through the crabgrass to sunlight. My friends’ prairie gives me hope for what mine may look like years down the road.

In sowing those seeds, I did what humans have done since the beginning of time, having faith that some action taken now will bear fruit in the future. I am satisfied knowing that a little piece of my friends’ prairie will live on in mine.

September 1, another month past in my prairie restoration. The battle against crab grass is lost. In some areas, the seed heads are knee deep. It is quite the mess.

During August, I sought to photograph and identify each new plant I spotted. Most of them were weeds: woolly cupgrass, foxtail, lambsquarter. The partridge peas have been a ray of sunshine. They grow throughout the prairie; the one plant I actually planted in my new space that made it to bloom.

As I’ve said before, the prairie has caused me to slow down and look close. And this past month, I’ve looked both close and more widely around our property, identifying prairie plants that exist with no input from me whatsoever. A massive goldenrod dominates a patch of blackeyed susans, a smattering of Greater Lobelia came out of nowhere in an area east of the prairie that turned into a wetland with all the summer rains.

The wetland area is a tangled messy mass of grasses and weeds. But the Greater Lobelia stand out, a beautiful, delicate blue. I can’t help but think that’s the message of the prairie to me this month. Even though things look like a mess, when I have patience, maybe even when I just leave things alone, something beautiful will come through.

Not quackgrass! That’s the judgment of the Iowa State University Extension Service who took a look at the pictures I sent and responded in a couple of hours. Crab grass and barnyard grass. Both annuals that will die off at the first hard frost.

I just learned about the folks who dispense answers and guidance at hortline@iastate.edu And now they’re my new best friends.

This pronouncement carries a good news/bad news aura about it. The good news you already know. The grass that has now completely overrun my prairie garden will die off with the frost. The bad news is that both of these grasses are prolific seed producers. If I let them go, they’ll reseed and the problem will show up again next year. Plus the grass is so thick, I find it hard to imagine the tiny prairie seedlings competing against it and winning.

Glyphosate is still an answer. I call my afternoon garden time: ‘Fun with Roundup.’ Container in one hand, half-inch paint brush in the other, I head for the prairie garden and kill off the grass one blade at a time.

Perhaps I am certifiably crazy. The garden is 2,400 sq. ft., after all. Viewed in another light, I may be a great artist. I take my inspiration from Michelangelo who spent four years completing the Sistine Chapel. Native prairie takes three years to establish.

Discouraged? Who, me? No way!