Summer Fades

Mon-

Early autumn morning mist softens the far shore, as the bright seaweed glistens exposed by the receding tide.  Once in a while, it is good to simply empty the mind and rejoice in the beauty of our world.
Tue-

As the sun rises later and later, my habitual strolls continue to occur at about the same human clock time each morning.  So the landscape is subtly changed with the angle of the sun, if I simply pay attention to the scene.  In another three months, walking at this time of day would be practically dawn were it not for the _ once more human convention _ of changing the clocks on daylight saving time.

You would expect people in tune with nature to set their activities in time with their circadian rhythms, but of course that is silly.  Since we used fire _ which may have preceded homo sapiens _ we have determined our own sunset, using campfires to artificially prolong the day when we consider it too short.  The blunt truth is that the foundations of our species lie in pushing back against the easiest “natural” path to do what we want, and when we want.

Wed-

Now come the “spectacular colors” as all the travel advisories from countless little towns you have never heard of flood the media.  Time the trip and arrive at peak color!  Spend some days (and some money) and enjoy the spectacle all around!  Whole forests and mountains draped in red, yellow, and orange!

I always wonder if it is not just as rewarding to study a few leaves, like these, each spectacular in its own right, or a single brilliantly red maple on a clear pond, such as we have at several places.  After all, one leaf, well observed, is often quite as remarkable as a tree containing ten thousand.  And a tree containing ten thousand brilliant fluttering leaves is surely just as wonderful as trying to take in ten thousand trees in the hazy distance.  At least these days, I like to remain close to home and try to truly notice all the subtle and startling changes as these weeks progress.

Thu-

   

Heavy misting rain off and on heralds the changes to come, softening the glows of yellow and green and blurring the far horizon.  You at least do not have to stand here getting wet and cold while taking the picture, but that experience is important too.  From here on its an extended set of spurts to biting wind and bare branches.

Long Island needs the rain _ TV meteorologists report we are in a “rain deficit” for the month.  Averages are human things _ nature could care less _ and we try to attach them to reality with misguided certainty.  Rain in October is part of the cycle of fall, regardless of the calendar.  But it sometimes does feel that if global warming is doing anything at all noticeable in the short term, it would seem to be adding to extremes _ harder storms, longer dry spells.  All I can do is appreciate each day uniquely as it arrives.
Fri-

Something has to lead the parade, and it seems certain trees _ whether from species or location or individual genetic difference _ are always the first to change color.  After a while, you seek them out as avidly as any flower in spring.  There is something nearly more dramatic about brilliant orange or red against a solid green background, than the same effect lost among a myriad of other flaming displays.

One of my faults is to frequently forget that trees are individuals, as different from each other as any animals.  But from nursery school, I’ve mentally plopped them into the landscape as brown sticks with a round green blob on top.  Being aware of tree differences is a good exercise in appreciating the infinite variety of every little corner of our world.
Sat-

The golden locust trees in the distance are at “peak” and will be stripped in the next rain.  Autumn gets down to business from here on, one wave after another.  The vine in the foreground shows the dramatic effects of slight differences in wind direction and exposure, but soon enough minor differences will be engulfed by the ongoing larger weather trends.

Like the spring, early October around here is a time to inspect and enjoy quickly or not at all.  Trees can become brilliant and then gone in what seems a flash _ green one day, glorious orange the next, all brown and falling soon after.  With eyes wide open you can go by a familiar place day after day and _ if you are really looking closely _ find it hardly recognizable.  There’s a metaphor there for those who are old, like me, but I’d prefer not to explore that further and instead concentrate on the beauty of eternal events.
Sun-

First real chill is blowing across the harbor (although in three months this would be felt as an incredibly balmy, almost tropical day.)  Goldenrod is losing its bloom and concentrating all its remaining strength on rapidly producing seeds for the coming years.  For an organism to grow and thrive and just before it withers and dies produce the next generation is completely alien to humans, who procreate (and think about procreation-related activities) incessantly until they are old, when _ well, not so much.

Why an individual person hangs around after genetic species necessities are fulfilled is the subject of some debate among biologists.  I think it is simply that humans found a way (biologically) to introduce continuity of culture, which strengthens the tribe and its chances of survival.  In societies without writing, it is the elders who are the repository of folk knowledge, taboo, mysteries, learning, and religion.  It is elders who can lend a more dispassionate voice in councils of activity and war, and although they may not be always be wise nor relevant, their advice can provide welcome perspective and counterpoint to the frantic immediacy of youthful decision making.  Of course, an elder would naturally claim that ….

  

 

  

Equinox Waltz

Mon-

Raindrops and mist, warm moist days followed by cool dry sun, loud insects muted as temperature lowers, swirls of leaves more frequently filling the air and carpeting below _ this is the beginning of a powerful waltz which twirls us around in a gripping rhythm, reminding us of warm times going by and indications of harsh moments to come.  There is repetition and progression and no matter how many times we have heard it the tune is lovely and irresistible and just a little melancholy.

The full orchestra naturally includes people and their activities, like the brass and drum section.  Dead trees are being chainsawed before they have to bear the weight of snow, rapidly growing grass is being cut furiously, suburbanites annoyed at each blemish on emerald expanse have decreed that leaf blowers strain endlessly to eliminate the offense _ modern day king Canutes forbidding the tide to come it.  All that crash and cosmic irony is also part of the harmony, although I sometimes have to extend myself a bit to appreciate it.
Tue-

The middle of Long Island is not rural and doesn’t pretend to be as do the remnants of the east end with their increasingly pretentious remaining farms and vineyards.  Two acre zoning is the most  expensive and spacious for local McMansions, and the age of gold coast robber barons is long gone (although current financial barons   

Manage to continue to buy the old properties.)  But we do have a few preserved remnants of the centuries old ten or so acre family farms that once covered the area.

This is one of them, a meadow filled with goldenrod and milkweed and thistle, resounding with the chirps of insects and cries of birds, drying under the cool breezes.  Upland farm was deeded to and is run by the Nature Conservancy (which was founded near here) for wildlife, and still gives a small hit of what used to be.  I love taking an hour here and there no matter what the climate and weather to reroot myself in the real world, almost free of attachments, always part of the greater web of what is.
Wed-

Early indicators on the ornamentals in the parking lot at the beach.  Leaves take over the stage for the next month, first in the wonderful colors, then in the drama of being stripped or blown off the branches, then finally in the effort to remove them from their natural resting place and cart them off to somewhere where they will not do nearly so much good.  The forest is rejuvenated by their decay each year, but here we prefer to fertilize our yards artificially instead.

Like the rest of the seasonal changes, the first indications of this seem miraculous, a spot of wonderful colors in a sea of green.  Then, except for occasional attempts to view something special, we tend to take everything for granted, seeing little day by day.  By the end of fall, we just want to get it over with and move on to winter with the promise of spring to come.  I often have wondered how much of our cultural attitudes in the moderate northern hemisphere are triggered by all this _ how easily we get bored, for example, or how worried we always are about what may come next.  Anyway, this morning had its truly lovely sights.
Thu-

Another large meadow around here is at Caumsett on Lloyd Neck. This small peninsula on the North Shore was too sandy and hilly and remote for much more than local farming, so it stayed in large parcels owned by the original (European) families for centuries.  Then Marshall Fields decided to make it into a working Olde English Farm, complete with peasants and cows.  Eventually, the heirs gave it to the state as a park, and it now remains a wonderful large place filled with birds and deer and these fields.  You can actually pretend you are in Wisconsin or upstate or, for that matter, back in the Colonial period.

Except, of course, you are not, as the jet planes and helicopters will all too frequently remind you.  But for moments, it is wonderful to walk empty fields, watch the butterflies and listen to nature.  This spot always for me represents the heart of the season here, whatever day it is, a perfectly natural moment in an often unnatural environment.  Of course, I ignore the fact that to have a field they must mow the grasses down each year _ the true natural state of all New England is old growth gloomy forest.  Meadows around here are a sure sign of humanity, and have been since the ice age.Fri-

A fair representation of changes about to happen fast.  Flowers, green trees, mild coloration.  In another month, the flower bed will be brown, a lot of the trees will be stripped, and whatever leaves remain will definitely not be the same color.  October can be very dramatic, but in a nice kind of way, before the really nasty weather arrives.  Unless, of course, we have early snow.

Some times we feel that way about our lives, that somehow we are on a calm plateau but we intuit that it cannot remain so long.  Unfortunately, in a bad way, reaching towards your seventies is one of those times.  In spite of the hopeful braying of media and snake-oil salesmen, observation shows me that however you may enter that decade, you will not long remain unscathed.  But right now _ well, the leaves are still green, aren’t they?
Sat-

Montauk daisies are not, I think, “true” daisies in the sense of being members of the compositae family.  But they sure look like daisies, except for the somewhat succulent leaves.  They can live in almost desert like conditions, out on sand dunes, where they are a welcome splash of beautiful lushness amid drying stalks of summer grasses.   

I always favor bits of nature that seem out of step with everything else.  Montauk daisies bloom fiercely when it seems just about everything else is packing up.  Witch hazel is another favorite, blooming in February which seems a completely futile endeavor.  These odd peculiarities make me, with my own idiosyncrasies compared to everyone else, feel much more accepted and part of the whole.
Sun-

Old dead trees, like some of the artifacts we leave behind, hang around for a few years before disappearing into the common maw of the past and gone.  They seem more permanent than the quickly browning grasses and poison ivy around them, or the blue sky, or the quiet surface of the water.  But most wise philosophers have discovered that anything in the world beyond our consciousness is largely illusion.

A very pretty illusion today, and the temperature and sun are just as nice, the serenade of insects and birds a lovely background in the susurration of the wind through the leaves.  Like all answers to the basic question “why”, the proper response to “why should I care about an illusion” is simply “because”.

  

 

 

 

Cool Nights, Bright Days

Mon-

This is not particularly a resort area, but the residents flock to the waterways in the summer.  When September rolls onwards, the focus shifts to farm stands and wine trails and harvest festivals, leaving the once-crowded marinas to tidy up and begin the laborious process of putting everything away and getting the boats out of the water.  The slightly bedraggled look of the once-bustling dockside shack indicates the season as clearly as any color-tinged leaf.

For those who enjoy such things, that’s part of the charm.  Endless summer as you find further south does not have such moments.  It’s not only nature, but the social pattern of people that adapt to the climate _ clothing, habits, activities _ and that is as much fun to watch as the never ending spectacles of birds and foliage.

Tue-

Just about the last stand for morning glories, they like late heat and heat is becoming rare.  Pleasant, yep, but you need a light jacket some of the time, especially if the north wind has kicked back in, which it does a lot more often than a few weeks ago.

Too early to be melancholy, but too brisk to hang out on park benches in shorts and tshirt.  Backyard farmers are either busy processing for the winter, or watching blight overtake the gardens that began so long ago (it seems, or just yesterday) in happy promise.  I know that suddenly my yard chores will be back in full measure, a rising crescendo of falling leaves, spurting weeds, and necessary measures to make the spring blooms extensive and strong.
Wed-

Even the grubbiest weeds can get into the act, turning brilliant colors before the trees, unexpectedly gleaming counterpoint in forgotten corners.  Last week they were just more dull green junk in piles of more green junk, now they can play the part of jewels on a dress.  By the time everything else kicks into color (making anything still green a welcome relief) these are just brown dead shriveled stalks, their purpose served.

With the right eye, these bits are an unexpected treasure, like finding an unexpected wildflower on a muddy spring stream.  But the right eye must be cultivated _ it is our nature to not notice any of this unless we happen to be looking for something unusual.  A gift of the camera in our busy lives, making us try to find something _ anything_ that strikes us as unusual.
Thu-

A leaf that has seen better days _ but no matter, no need to repair it now, full replacement is on the way in eight months or so.  These vines participated in the throw-away culture long before there was such a thing.  And how often do we ever look at the stories such holes and edges tell, except to occasionally react in horror if the victim happens to be a favorite cultivated plant?

Of course, “in real life” my eyes see this as just part of what is in focus all at the same time _ that blur behind it revealed as a full panorama, shadows moving overhead, subconsciously alert for any sudden flicker indicating danger to my ancient fears.  A lens tells the truth but also lies, and that is the type of contradiction we face constantly in art, in society, and in life itself.

Fri-

Dogwood leaves are changing quickly now, among the first, and in a few weeks will be brown and on the ground.  The bright red fruit is often all but unnoticed, after all they are planted for lovely spring flowers.  But I look out my window here, and seen the back tree almost all dull red, against the still verdant background of maples and forsythia.

We adjust rapidly.  In only a few weeks the high heat has given way to cold mornings, and that suddenly seems totally normal.  The most remarkable capacity of people, I think, is to be able to so completely adapt to almost any situation that after a while it seems right and proper.  I must be constantly on guard to fall into the trap of taking everything _ no matter how splendid _ for granted and losing the enchantment of each day.

Sat-

Goldenrod _ laden with a full complement of big fat black bees _ loudly proclaims that equinox is arriving.  Sunset is noticeably sooner, and early morning hours are hazy dark already.  As the sun’s angle dips southward, shadows lengthen all day long.

Harvest festivals and fairs are in full swing everywhere, even in towns like Huntington which hasn’t seen a real farm in decades.  We used to take our kids to such events when they were little, but lately our nerves are less tolerant, and we avoid the happy screaming of the wee ones most of the time.  Many days the temperature rises until it is just perfect, and you can sit forever and enjoy the fleeting moment.
Sun-

Into every life, some rain must fall.  In our case, we are generally happy to see it because for whatever reason the last few years our summers and autumns have been quite dry.  Equinox also begins the time when the North wind becomes a bit more assertive, mists and overcasts wander about more frequently, and of course a perfectly lovely looking morning can chill you to the bone quickly if you do not dress appropriately.  Oh, I know true astronomical equinox is tomorrow, but I’m not a Druid and for an old guy like me just remembering the 21^st of certain months is quite enough trouble.

Summer is agoin’ out, October arrives.  Already commercial establishments want everyone to turn their backs on whatever reality is outside to concentrate on “the holidays” with their imaginary weather contrived to resemble well-known stories and movies set in traditional places.  Once upon a time all the neighbors would be fretfully worried about the immediate possibilities of leaves falling, but now our affluent community is fully committed to hiring yard crews to avoid possible interaction with the elements.

   

 

  

Listless

Mon-

Gulls resemble some people I know, always sure of themselves, ready to grab whatever they run into as if they own it, smugly aloof from everything else happening around them.  This one has commandeered a perch on a dory in the tide and would probably attack me if I tried to drive it off.  Or, just as likely, say “The Hell with it,” and fly off without regret.

Some days I too feel completely detached from social reality.  The world of culture and what people care about seems to have passed me by.  The busy little lives of people doing necessary things at work is a closed book, and sometimes I have a sense of worthlessness.  But my native arrogance and optimism usually conquers all shortly after, and like this bird I commandeer what I want and decide I don’t desire what I can’t have anyway.  And stare off into space, in my own little spacetime bubble, happy as a _ gull.
Tue-

Bittersweet _ the name of these orange berries on a weedy vine often covering waterfront fences _ and also an apt description of the lingering echoes of a season past.  Oh sure, the real equinox is not for a few weeks, but somehow the mood is fully turned.  Sweaters and jackets out of storage, shorts and bathing suits washed and ready to put away.

Bittersweet, too, the haunting songs written about September and the autumn of our days and summer loves lost and fond vacation memories only preserved in pictures and wetware.  It’s one of the loveliest months in the most lovely of seasons, and yet its overriding general impression is always one of transition.  At least here, in this time and place, and at my age and situation.
Wed-

If these Korean Dogwood fruits were just a little larger, you could swing them around and hit people on the head like in the old days.  Within their own scale, they look pretty formidable.   Perhaps elves use them at night for whatever elves do.

There is so much to see in the wide world before us that we often miss great chunks of what is close at hand.  Folks come here all the time and are enraptured by the wide expanse of lawn, the distant views of Connecticut, the crumbling Gothic boathouse on the brilliant blue harbor.  I doubt anyone comes to this tiny forgotten corner and asks “what the heck are those things?”  I take that back.  No doubt a few children, in their innocent wisdom, do so all the time.  I try to keep their frame of mind when I can.
Thu-

 

   

A hint of dramatic skies to come, as increasingly savage weather fronts battle it out for autumn supremacy.  One of the problems with trying to completely attune with nature is that I can let me moods swing a little too much with sun or rain or cold or heat.  Any mood I wish to place on my environment is, of course, simply an anthropomorphic projection of my inner state _ completely under my control and having nothing at all to do with clouds or lack of same.

I used to think that the ubiquitous utility poles and lines stretching everywhere would be the hallmark of our civilization’s records _ anyone looking at a photo can immediately date it almost to the decade based on how the wires look.  But now I realize that the real marker is probably flat photographs themselves.  In two centuries we seem to have gone from not knowing how to make automatic flat images to moving beyond them into three dimensional holograms and virtual reality. 

Fri-

Wild asters overlooking the park lawn at the old Brown’s pottery factory site.  One of those charming little forgotten spots tucked away all over New England, happily put in the public domain by some civic minded folks in the past.  Not really enough money to fix it up properly, surely underused, and yet a very welcome breathing space compared to heavily frequented more well known areas.

My generation’s legacy to the planet is in more doubt.  Of course, everything is more complex, it is not enough to stop pollution in the water and air, try to preserve fish stocks with quota, and have some awareness of the damage humans are doing to the ecology.  For all that, the world is definitely in worse shape than we found it as babies.  Yet, of course, that is a collective we, and little actualities like parks are rather done by individuals or small civic-minded groups.  I’m as confused as everyone else as to what I, as a person, could be doing better that would actually make a difference to generations to come (if, in fact, there are any.)
Sat-

Some of the changes are still subtle _ the grass is gradually turning yellow and brown, for example.  It will eventually get a range of hues, from top to bottom, that almost exactly indicate exactly what week it is.  But _ not much from day to day.  That is the trap, of course.

It is tempting to worry about what is to come, or lament what is gone, and somehow ignore how fine it all is right now.  September was traditional harvest season in a farm economy, when you found out how well or badly you had done and would be fed for a while.  It was the start of incredible business as crops were picked and stored and preparations made for the winter and coming spring.  There was no time for reflection or even planning.  But here we are _ harvest is always down the block at the supermarket, and preparations for winter tend to be limited to getting the snow blower to start.  With nothing really focused on the season it has drifted into a kind of holiday prelude _ which is completely silly.    September is truly one of the wonderful months around here, yet I must often force myself not to waste these precious days.

Sun-

 

Trees that turn this brown might be prematurely dropping leaves from light change, or drought, or disease, or any combination.   It may be hard to believe this one will make it back next spring, yet they often do.  Nature, however, makes sure that all the energy possible for this particular year has gone into the all-important seed production.  The cruel fact is that individuals _ like me and you and this tree _ do not matter at all to our great Mother, any more than they do to our universal Father the cosmos. 

But the amazing fact is that you and I matter to ourselves and each other.  It’s absolutely astounding that we can be ourselves and yet still survive and not only make it from day to day, but enjoy our moments and celebrate the wonder of being.  Some claim that must come from a spiritual element beyond nature and the cosmos, some claim that we ourselves are that spiritual element, but there is absolutely no doubt that we are more than mere nature and cosmos.  Hello there _ welcome to this moment!

 

 

 

   

Too Late Hot

Mon-

Very low tide at Mill Dam creek, the outlet for the stream which wanders through Hecksher park and forms a little stream, mostly underground.  This whole area long ago was dotted with mills and their ponds running on the power of the streams which ran ceaselessly from springs up a ways in the sand hills.  In the last fifty years, well after the mills were gone, all the springs have dried up as pumps lowered the water table immensely.  Some of the results, as here, are not particularly pretty, although a person with an odd artistic eye might find it romantically picturesque.

After a very cold, blah summer _ which nevertheless tremendously pleased city dwellers as it depressed beach sales and tourism _ the polar high pressure has retreated for a while, and we are baking in humid head.   Just in time to roast the kids in the non-air-conditioned schools, and make those returning to hard long desk jobs incredibly depressed and angry.  Ah, the mysterious ways of nature.  At least I have a chance to enjoy it, although it has also led to an incredible resurgence of tiger mosquitoes on our patio, which tend to drive me indoors more often than I would like.
Tue-

Lovely but inedible pokeweed fruit tucked in alongside the debris of the roadside.  I’m surprised it hasn’t been eaten yet, but then again the local bird and insect populations seem quite reduced this year.  I hope that is just a particular anomaly, but I fear from what I read that an ecological catastrophe continues to wreak havoc across the continent.  Well, I was given this day, and even if the end is rapidly approaching, I must make the best of it that I can.

On the other hand, I know that apocalypse of one form or another is a lovely Western tradition.  We like to believe, I think, that our own failings will be washed clean by a general destruction that makes them all irrelevant.  Anything can trigger this cultural artifact _ cold, hot, wet, dry, too many or too few insects or fish.  For all our sophistication, we remain at heart just as superstitious as the ancient Romans with their auguries in flights of birds and animal entrails.
Wed-

Yesterday when this was taken weather folks claim was the hottest, most humid day of the year in New York.  The beach is deserted, life guard chair and flags put away for next memorial day, rest rooms locked, parents and children back in their little cells.  Us old people, or the very odd or fortunate have everything to themselves.

Perhaps they would be inside anyway.  Dr. Oz and his ilk have terrified with tales of cancerous sun rays, debilitating smog, heat exhaustion, dehydration, sunstroke, coliform bacteria in the water, flesh eating bacteria likewise, ticks with lime, mosquitoes with west nile, tiger mosquitos with chikengunya.  Only bats have escaped so far _ oh, wait, they might have rabies.  I sometimes think H.G. Wells got it wrong _ in the far future the innocent sweet bubbleheads will all be happily underground in hermetically sealed environments, while only the brutish workers roam the horrible wild nature of the surface.
Thu-

An invasive plant, but handsome all year round, and now with almost bright seed pods ready to fluff out in the coming months like vast halos to catch the sun on frosty mornings.  The “invasive” is a kind of sneer, indicating something aggressive that is pushing out the paradise here before it arrived, presumably made up of non-invasive flora existing in some type of peaceable kingdom.  Anyone who studies botany knows better, everything at one time or another is invasive, and most often crowding something else out, slowly or rapidly, and quite often merely because the environment itself has changed.

Me, I consider myself and everyone I know, quite invasive, and not nearly so attractive on the outside as this reedy wonder.  Our amazing abilities are concentrated inside, although those abilities do allow us to wreak havoc with any environment.  Hence this “weed.”  I will be gone soon enough, but I suspect that the offspring of this clump will be thriving, although they may have had to climb the hillside pretty quickly to do so as the tide rises higher and higher.
Fri-

Pretty hot today, feels like a good time to go swimming, summer is wonderful …. Oh, yeah, summer is almost over.  The spartina seeds have almost all dispersed into the surrounding sands and marshes.  Grass thrived this year, and the stands of salt grass are lush and full.  Kind of surprising, because after a rough winter the mats of roots were very scattered and broken and I wasn’t sure they would come back very well.  Just goes to show what I know.

Nature this week is like listening to an old clarinet solo, where a high note is held and goes on and on and impossibly on, without the musician taking a breath.  But take a breath he must, and this heat will suddenly break off just as quickly.  The music will go on, but the end of this tune is certain, sooner rather than later.  Isn’t it amazing that our minds can make such odd connections, let alone try to communicate them?
Sat-

I always think of goldenrod as the ushers.  Near the end of a fabulous function, while everyone is still having a wonderful experience with no thought of the time, they quietly slip back near the doors to be ready to herd everyone out of the ballroom.  When you see them, even though all is the same, the party will soon be over.  And now they are casting their colorful yellow over the entire landscape.

Admittedly, I enjoy all the seasons.  For those of us adjusted to this climate, every season drags on just a bit too long and becomes tiresome.  Summer heat and oppressively closed in foliage, the cold and snow of winter, the tantalizing but often chill promise of spring.  We’re glad _ especially initially _ of the new challenges of each turn of the climate.  Maybe it’s a small touch of some generic psychological trait that makes us crave the new no matter how nice the status quo.
Sun-

Ninety degree day, humid like soup, sweat rolling down forehead, and this little member of the compositae _ I don’t know its common name _ flowers and seeds and sends fluff packages off to the unknown.  If you look closely, you can see the ants crawling all over it.  For a moment I feel pity, because neither the plant nor the insects know what is coming, that this moment is an aberration in a long slide into barren deep freeze.

We tend to think we are quite superior, being able to predict the future.  We are aware that the seasons are due to change, that certain plants and animals will die and only offspring will survive.  We smugly know that we will (probably) survive because civilization will (most likely) meet our needs and that those asteroids (almost certainly) will not hit the Earth and as an individual we will not be a mere statistic of the (very few) who die in a car accident or from a bad case of flu.  In fact, when you think about it, we have a great deal of faith in what we think we know about the coming moments, but we don’t really know any more relative to our own paths than those ants or flowers.