|Canada thistle seed heads and blossoms|
Photo by J. Harrington
While poking (clicking) around the Aldo Leopold Foundation web site recently, I discovered they have a seed collecting calendar. It's tucked into the Prairie Restoration section of the Land Stewardship Resources page, where the writer notes that the dates are for southern Wisconsin, which is probably a week or two earlier(?) than our location in Minnesota. To be on the safe side, right after Labor Day I'll start looking for seeds on the butterfly weed plants I've noticed.
|early May Juneberry(?) blossoms|
Photo by J. Harrington
The local serviceberry bushes had nice blossoms this past Spring, but the few I checked closely today had no berries to be seen. I deferred a really close inspection due to the poison ivy vines surrounding the bases of the bushes. Those that the birds didn't get have probably fallen already. We checked, from a distance, several weeks ago with comparable results so it's possible we were simply too late starting our foraging. This Winter will be a good time to work on a phenology calendar of blooms, fruits, seeds etc. all in one place. The Eloise Butler site notes that heavy fruiting occurs only every three to five years, so bare bushes may simply be normal and we didn't miss much. Time to recall that Life is a mystery to be Lived, not a Problem to be Solved. I wonder if I could get away with "it's a mystery to be solved?"
Country Love SongI try to think of the cup of a hand,of legs in a tangle, and not the thistlethough even it, purpled, spiking away,wants to be admired, wants to say, whistlea little for me. O every little thing wantsto be loved, wants to be marked by the crythat brings desire to it, even blue-eyed flyto the bloated hiss of death. To love is to be remiss:the horse alone in the wide flat field nodsits head as if the bridle and bit were missedor mocked; the cow slung with the unmilked weightof her tremendous teats shoots a look back over her shoulderat O lonesome me. I want to say to her needas if crooning could be enough,sweet, sweet mama . . . truth be told,the thousand lisping bees to the milkweeds' honeyterrifies me. When the stink of slurry seasonis over and the greened fields are slathered, fecund,overtall foxgloves tip with the weight of their fruit.Then I dream a little dream of youand me, curled like two grubs on the top of a leafwind-driven and scudding along the lake's surface.All night we glide to its blue harborand back again. The fattened slack of ussinging O darlin' darlin' darlin'.
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.