Nectaring

There is such activity and “buzziness” in the midday sun. Countless bees are nectaring from the hollow-stemmed Joe Pye weed. Wasps and flower flies are attracted to the nectar of bronze fennel flowers and the swallowtail butterflies have discovered the butterfly weed. On the pale pink blossom of Joe Pye weed there are too many kinds of bee for me to identify. I can differentiate the bumblebees, the honeybees, carpenter bees and metallic green sweat bees, but there are many more visitors of all shapes and sizes. I am a little disturbed not to have seen any monarch butterflies visiting the garden this summer. But the leaves of the common milkweed plant have been nibbled upon. The butterfly weed has only just bloomed and the sight of the spicebush swallowtails and an eastern tiger swallowtail heartens me. The cheerful sound of goldfinches delights me. They sit on the coneflowers and tug at the seed singing all along. I creep to get a good close up photo, but the birds always dash away leaving flower stems bouncing.

Ode to an Oak

I have been overcome with sadness and guilt, but the tree had to go. For many months now woodpeckers have been hammering at the bare heartwood of a large leader branch. In the fall, a huge hen of the woods mushroom (Grifola frondosa) would billow out from the trunk at ground level. These are sure signs that this tree, close to my heart and to my house, was in decay. I would have hugged this tree if I could have gotten my arms around its wide girth. There it stood, so strong and seemingly permanent, its beautiful grainy bark clearly visible from the front door window. The day the arborist arrived to take it down I felt as if I were putting a favorite pet to sleep.

I have many mature oak trees on my property, but with this mighty plant now gone there is one less to host the myriad of insects, birds and mammals that rely on an oak for survival. Now there is one less tree for the warblers to stop over during migration when they flit about and sing way up there amongst the oak blossom to feed on insects. There is such a void: one less squirrel highway and hideaway; thousands of acorns no longer produced; leaves no longer food for caterpillars of tussock moth, hairstreak, underwings, gall wasp; no more cover from which katydids and cicadas sing. A portion of shade has gone from the house. Hostas and ferns will now fry beneath. 

In the tangled wood behind our house this tree would have provided habitat for many years during its slow demise. Indeed, it is brutal to obliterate a tree from the landscape in one day and I plan to plant an oak seedling in its place but with the realization that it will take decades for such a tree to reach maturity.  I will eventually get used to the gaping hole in the canopy and a stump (albeit with a rotten core) will be a monument to the existence of a wonderful life-giving tree.

Summer. It's about time!

Penstemon

Full moon. Summer solstice. It’s about time for blog entry!

The tangled wood is almost impenetrable and the garden is overwhelmed with weeds after the rains of previous weeks. In honor of National Pollinator Week, I searched for some pollinators amongst the flowers that seem to have bloomed late this season.

Grasshopper on Evening Primrose

I enjoy watching the activity around the penstemon. The tubular flowers fit the bees’ hairy bodies like a glove. It seems that tiny green bees like to visit yellow flowers, such as coreopsis and evening primrose. 

Hidden amongst the flowers and foliage are insects that will take front stage later in the summer, with their song and stridulations. Is that a young grasshopper on the primrose petal? A katydid seeks camouflage on a milkweed leaf.

Katydid on Milkweed Leaf

May Day Greening

Sassafras Flowers

I celebrate this day of fertility rites, workers rights, May queens and maypoles by embracing all that is vernal in my tangled wood and garden: the large bumblebees that roam for nectar; the promise of herbaceous perennial shooting skyward; fiddleheads and knobs of ferns as they too awaken; bird sounds all; dried oak leaves to crumble; spicebush and maple-leaf viburnum defying ivy.

The woodland canopy is colored with green unfurling leaves and the soft browns, beiges and ochre of oak flowers. The house wren has returned. It has been singing loudly and can be seen flitting amongst the lime green sassafras blossom.

 The storm-damaged dogwood tree seems more fragile than ever. But its boughs will support the nesting boxes for at least another year. Its emerging leaves appear v-shaped amongst tentative flower bracts. Springtime brings me hope and energy. 

Flowering Dogwood (Cornus florida)

A lumber yard for wildlife

A red-bellied woodpecker calls from way up in a tree. It has claimed a hollow, decayed branch for a nest. I spot its brilliant red head protruding from a hole. Judging from all the other birdsong I have been hearing, the nesting season has surely begun. From a spring-clean up of my garden there is quite a pile of dried material that could be put to good use. A lumber yard for wildlife: stems of hollow-stemmed Joe Pye for solitary bees; little bluestem grass leaves for weaving and its fluffy seed for lining a nest; stiffer stems of goldenrod, echinacea and sedum for firmer structure. The adjacent woodpile is a source of twigs, which the male house wren will use to stuff all three of the little wooden bird boxes. I wonder which one the female will pick to raise a brood in this year.

A brown cloak in the sun

There has not been much to report these past few weeks of cruel, late winter. However, there are signs of spring besides emergent flowering bulbs. An ardent song sparrow has been sitting atop the holly bush and singing its heart out even amidst falling late winter snow. Yesterday as I looked out on the garden I spotted a large butterfly. I ran outside into the spring sunshine, camera in hand, because I knew that I had seen a mourning cloak (Nymphalis antiopa), the first of the season and a true harbinger of spring. It landed on a large stone in the sun, wings open so that its dark brown wings could absorb radiant heat from the sun. It sat there for several minutes providing me the opportunity to get a good close-up photograph. Yellow margins on the wing and azure blue iridescent spots add refinery to a somber, brown cloak. After a while the beauty took off and fluttered around me before landing again on my head! I felt a tickle in my hair and a feeling of joy. We have both come through the winter to bask in spring sunshine at last. Mourning cloaks are thought to be the longest-lived of all butterflies. Adults can live up to 10 to 11 months and most of them overwinter. Only some migrate south in the fall.

Promise of spring

Yesterday radiant heat from the sun was melting the blanket of snow and my face was warmed along with my mood. Melt water was audibly dripping revealing flowering snowdrops and crocuses in small pockets of bare earth.

Today is a dull day with snow in the forecast. But the birds are singing as fervently as ever. I’ve been observing them for the Great Backyard Bird Count. The squirrels must be hunkered down because they seem to be leaving the bird feeder alone letting the chickadees and titmice have a free run. A northern cardinal is singing high up in the holly tree. White-throated sparrows are scratching about in exposed leaf litter. A song sparrow spends some time in the safety of the cage surrounding the feeder. A furtive dark-eyed junco is hopping about beneath. A white-breasted nuthatch spirals down the trunk of an oak tree and in the distance I spot a downy woodpecker. Last but not least, the tiny Carolina wren pays a fleeting visit to round off my list.