Each Day, One Gift

Colorful pebbles on the shore line. The hop and skip, hop and skip of robins on the lawn. The clattering call of a kingfisher. Who lives in the knot hole of this tree? The downy woodpecker, who bobs and spirals on the sassafras? Heavy snow leaves trees with sleeves, little birds shelter in caves of white. Robins skid and sip melting ice on the pond.  Twigs glisten with condensing fog. Evergreens whisper in a stiff winter breeze.

Gnats dance on a warm winter day, maple buds are red against a deep blue sky. Mourning Cloak warms its dark wings against a rock.  Tiny bees are about.  Shoots pierce the duff, ferns unfurl.  Barn swallows swoop over the marsh, bumble bees dive into flowers.  Terns plunge for fish. A colony of tiny ants makes piles of sand.  Robin builds a nest. 

Fireflies blink at dusk.  Green sweat bees lick aphid honeydew.  Fiddler crabs run away, claws going clickety, click.  Spiders jump, flower flies hover, flower beetles tumble. Fungi fruit after summer rainfall - dog vomit slime mold, crown-tipped coral fungus, beefsteak mushroom and red chanterelle. Ambush bugs wait for prey amongst the flowers.  Skippers mate in the meadow. Box turtle trundles by. 

Redstarts, black-throated blues bath in the pond. Goldfinches peck at seed.  Squirrel plants an acorn in a flower pot. Male bumble bees bivouac on goldenrod stems. Tiny parachutes of seed travel on a breeze.  There are fluffy pompoms on golden aster and ironweed. Lime green veins on a vermillion maple leaf. Crimson winterberries and dusty blue, fleshy cones of juniper are in profusion.  Spartina has turned from green to tawny gold. Chipmunks scurry. A woolly bear crosses the road. Samaras whirl to earth.  Turtles line up on a log. Widgeon’s wheezing whistle, honking geese above. 

Dark clouds have a golden lining.  Seed heads and feathers on a grackle catch the sunlight.  Gulls feed along the tide line.  Sanderlings, like tiny sewing machines, probe the muck. Ducks waddle on the marsh, they tip end up to dabble. 

White caps on the Sound  Crows buffeted by the wind  A blustery day.

A Sad Start to the Day

A mug of morning tea in hand, I peruse my inbox and scroll through posts to check in with the world at large. Political shenanigans abound and the coronavirus still wreaks global havoc. A loud thud against the kitchen window pulls me away from the computer screen and with even more foreboding I make my way to the back step. There I find a beautiful bird. I cradle it in my hands hoping that its still warm body will come to life, come out of concussion and coma, and fly once again. But its neck is floppy and I realize there is no hope and find little comfort that it must have died instantly. In one moment the bird is flying obliviously towards an opening in leafy boughs. In the next its life is cut short as it hits a cold, hard reflection in a windowpane.

I sit with the bird for a while. When my tears subside curiosity takes over and I marvel at the exquisite details of a bird that are hard to appreciate through lenses of binoculars. The whiskers at the beak, the gnarled, clawed feet curled under for flight. I gently stroke smooth, shiny feathers of varying texture, color and patterning. A spotted breast leads me to ascertain this is a thrush. It has grayish brown wings and buffy spectacles around the eyes are indicative of a Swainson’s thrush.

I am dismayed to think that my house prevented this migrant from making a safe journey south for winter, even while my yard has good stopover habitat for thrushes, with plentiful undergrowth, food and shelter. I solemnly lay my fallen visitor to rest under a pile of leaf litter.

This is a sad start to the day. But my emotion is a release, perhaps a salve for the numbness I have come feel about the present state of the world we live in.

Warblers at the Pond

This spring of lockdowns and quarantine I am drawn more than ever to the serenity found beside my garden pond. From a perch in a pond-side chair I have observed, for me, one of the most wonderful spring migrations and mostly without “warbler neck”! With a camera at the ready and binoculars to hand I have observed many avian visitors dropping down to the pond for flies and a sip.  A common yellowthroat probes muck in a plant pot. A black-throated green warbler takes a bath. A bay breasted warbler hops across surrounding rocks. I have also observed northern parulas, American redstarts, black-and-whites, black-throated blue warblers and a scarlet tanager make fleeting visits.

Bay-breasted Warbler

A wood thrush came down for a visit one late afternoon. I have heard its beautiful song many times these past few days. Sometimes I think it sounds mournful, perhaps from a lovesick bird calling for a mate. I live in a small patch of woodland and I would like to think that the area could accommodate a nesting pair. Wood thrushes are protected under the US Migratory Bird Act as populations have been declining over the past several decades. Successful breeding is more likely in large tracts of forest. But, my yard does provide habitat, as these birds like to be near running water, they nest in dense understory and feed on the ground by sifting through leaf litter for invertebrates.

Wood Thrush

The fluty, complex song of the thrush brings me hope for springs to come. Watching the pond makes me realize that life goes on, no matter the misgivings about the state of the world.

Spring Blues

A ritual of mine on sunny spring days is a walk around my garden. I proceed slowly down the front path, across the mowed meadow, stepping on bluestone pavers to the back by the pond. I look closely for emerging shoots piercing the duff and swelling buds on twigs. Birdsong in the background, I listen intently for the buzz of a bee.

Honeybees are busy foraging amongst Siberian squill (Scilla siberica). Beside a carpet of blue I make a surprising discovery. The bees’ pollen baskets are blue, not yellow, as I would expect. Sure enough I brush off steel-blue pollen from the anthers of a flower. Scilla is one of only a few plants that produce anthocyanin-rich, blue pollen. It is a nutritious food source for bees in early spring.

Virginia Bluebells (Mertensia virginica)

 Spring azure butterflies flutter about, small flashes of intense blue that instantly disappear when wings are folded upon landing. Virginia bluebells (Mertensia virginica) sport pendulous, pale blue trumpets that sway in the breeze to announce the beginning of a sequence of bloom for native plants in my garden. I look to the banks of the pond to find marsh marigolds (Caltha palustris).  The shiny yellow sepals that we see are perceived as purple to bees. This early bloomer provides nectar and pollen for many a native bee. Syrphid flies also like to feed at these golden food bowls. These flies are considered beneficial because their larvae are predators of aphids.

Marsh Marigold (Caltha palustris) with native bee visitor

Calm water in the pond reflects a quality of light you only see in springtime when clarity and depth of a sky so blue is offset by brilliant reds of maple flowers. As I look heavenward my spirit is uplifted. A stroll around a spring garden is an antidote to anxiety and stress I have so often felt during these troubling times. Spring blues wash winter moods away.

A Halloween Plant

I smell the spicy fragrance of your pale yellow, spidery flowers just as leaves change color and fall to the ground in late October. On some bare twigs where flowers ought to be are weird spiky sputniks. These light green protuberances are shelters for the spiny witch hazel bud gall aphids, Hamamelistes spinosus, whose name is as bewildering as a spell might be. These are formed as your bud tissue is enticed to envelope a feeding, sucking aphid as she nestles on your branches in springtime. The resultant gall is food and shelter for her and her brood throughout the summer. 

Ants climb all over your galls looking for honeydew, which is exuded by the developing aphids. An age-old trick if ever there was one! Ants will milk for a sugary treat and defend an expanding colony of aphids in return. Eventually, the spiny galls turn brown and crack open to release mature aphids, which fly off to form further galls, as warty bumps on the leaves of a birch tree.

Mystery abounds over which insect is the likely to pollinate your strange strap-like flowers so late in the season. Happenstance is that owlet moths visit you under the cover of dusk. They arise from their daytime refuge in fallen leaves to feed, keeping themselves warm in the cold evening air by rapidly shivering and thus distributing pollen. 

Your fruit is a hard gray capsule, from which you exercise your potency by forcibly expelling shiny black seeds to a distance of 20 to 40 feet.

For centuries you have been known for your medicinal powers. Potions made from your bark and leaves are used as a mild antiseptic, astringents and toners for the skin. 

Your common name is derived from the Middle English word “wiche”, meaning pliable. Your bendable stems are still used to this day as water divining or dowsing tools to find underground sources of water. Another name for this ancient practice is water witching.

You are witch hazel. 

Hamamelis virginiana.

A Season for Living in the Present

It’s hard not to live in springtime’s present. Anticipation has me observant of the greening; to see if maple twigs have swelled for a blush of red against the sky; to hear the increased urgency in birdsong.

On warmer days I cannot stop myself from heading outside with a fine-tined rake to gently brush away the thick layer of leaf litter from garden beds. There are signs of life amongst the brown and the dead.  A greyed stem of Joe Pye weed, perforated with small round holes is evidence of life in winter’s debris. A bird must have probed this stalk with its beak for overwintering insects.

The discovery of pink shoots of Solomon’s seal, tender green leaves emerging around dried plant stalks, the buzz of ground-nesting bees. All heighten my awareness that spring is well on its way.  Growth is fast this time of year. Nubs of cinnamon fern by the pond have shot up in the past few days. Now they are erect, fuzzy stems bearing fiddleheads that demurely touch each other as they wait to unfurl.  Moss has greened rocks around the pond all winter. But now the green hue deepens and the moss softens, covered with a fine fuzz of sporophytes. Pairs of the first leaves of jewelweed seedlings have appeared at the water’s edge.

Early spring has signs that are eagerly awaited and thus easy to follow. Later in the year we tend to take it all for granted, making it hard to embrace the minutiae of nature. But I strive to find joy from quiet observation in the present, whatever the season, in my garden designed for wildlife habitat.

At Peace With Squirrels

Today is National Squirrel Appreciation Day, a day to dispel the bad rap so often given to these ubiquitous critters. I have come to terms with the resident eastern grey squirrels (Sciurus carolinensis) in my garden by installing a cone of black metal that baffles them from eating all the seed from the winter bird feeder. Now, instead of cursing them, I enjoy watching their antics as they dash up and down tree trunks, use twiggy branches as springboards up in the bare canopy and, as indeed they do, try to get around the baffle. When they sit still, for perhaps a moment, I see how endearing they can be. Front paws curled under as if in a muff, tail ornately curled, and a twinkle in a mischievous eye.

The squirrels I get to see up close seem relatively healthy. They are not suffering from a lack of black sunflower seed in their diet. They must be relying on caches of acorns and nuts gleaned in warmer months. A keen sense of smell and a good spatial memory aid them in the recovery of hundreds of caches. They employ an anti-theft device against onlookers and clever blue jays by digging fake holes and reburying vulnerable food. Uncovered caches, twenty per cent or so, contribute to new oak forests. Another favorite food of squirrels grows in my tangled wood, namely, black walnut. Squirrels are well equipped with four sharp incisors to break through the bright green outer husk of the fruit. That gnawing sound often accompanies me as I garden on a warm fall day.

As well as planting forests these busy, scurrying animals provide other benefits for our environment. All of their digging and burying aerates the soil. Squirrels build a lot of nests using leaf litter and twigs sturdy enough to withstand winter storms. In severe cold spells they nest together in tree cavities. Birds and other animals often use any of these nests that go unclaimed. Squirrels are omnivorous and will eat tree-infesting beetles as well as lawn grubs. In turn, squirrels are an important food source for birds of prey.

So as an arctic blast of air sends wind chills plummeting, I am hoping that habitat in my garden provides a warm place for squirrels to hunker down and their stores of food will last until warmer days when I’ll hear their little barks and see the flick of that incomparable fluffy tail.

For the Birds

This past fall I enjoyed the migrant birds in my garden. I watched sparrows (white-throated and song) return along with yellow-rumped warblers. Flocks of golden-crowned kinglets perched on branches and flower stalks to glean tiny insects. They seemed fearless and allowed me to get quite close to them. One day I was thrilled to observe a group of northern parulas bathing in the pond. Amongst them was a further surprise - a lone Canada warbler identified by a dark grey necklace on its bright yellow breast.

However, I was alerted to a hazard for these birds when I kept on hearing the sound of dull thuds against my picture windows, from which I have a beautiful view of surrounding trees. Reflections of this canopy in the glass were proving to be deadly. So I used some specially designed bird tape from the American Bird Conservancy to prevent further collisions. Now my windows have arrays of 3” squares of opaque tape. There is still a view from within, the birds can sense there is no way through and this arrangement is proving to be quite decorative. The squares sometimes shimmer with shadows and light.

The meadow looks wonderfully disheveled and fertile with seed. Moleskin pods of butterfly weed have wrinkled and split to release their contents. Dark brown seeds attached to a downy parachute spill out and accumulate around the pods until a breeze teases them away. Common milkweed released its seeds in August and American goldfinches line their nests with those silky tufts. Next spring orioles can use the strong, flexible fibers in milkweed plant stems to weave their hanging sock-like nests.

Little bluestem has many fall hues and it catches the sunlight in its fluffy seeds. It will turn all gold and provides winter interest and food and shelter for the birds. Along with other native meadow grasses it is the larval host for skipper butterflies, which overwinter as a chrysalis in nearby leaf litter. Golden pompoms of Maryland golden aster, towering spires of Joe Pye weed and New York ironweed, and thistle heads of rudbekia and purple coneflower provide copious amounts of seed for chickadees, cardinals, titmice and juncos. And I love to watch the little hop-skip-jumps of the white-throated sparrows as they scratch at the ground to find fallen seed. Needless to say, I do not cut back the meadow until late winter. Leaf litter is allowed to remain wherever it falls off the garden path because it is a valuable resource. It is a layer where butterflies lay their eggs, where spiders haunt and where many other invertebrates live or seek shelter. Food for many an avian visitor can be found here in winter and in the spring to come.

Winterberry holly (Ilex verticillata) has large clusters of shiny red berries. They may persist well into winter and cheer the snowy landscape while providing sustenance for the northern mocking bird, the American robin and the brown thrasher. The flowering dogwood tree (Cornus florida) also produces brilliant red berries, which will feed the northern flicker, the yellow-bellied sapsucker and the eastern towhee. Red chokeberry (Aronia arbutifolia) produces tiny little red apples. This is a very tart fruit, which will persist on the shrub before becoming palatable enough for a late winter feast.

Snow will eventually cover the bounty of this late season. But I stock up the feeders and melt ice on the pond. Dried stalks in the meadow, evergreens and thickets of shrubbery provide shelter. All will be ready against the ravages of winter when I can still enjoy watching birds in the garden.