the missing chrysalis?

We found a chrysalis that may, or may not, belong to one of the monarch caterpillars that disappeared last week. We'd been cleaning the gutters on the front of the house and went to get the hose so we could flush where we'd cleaned. Lo and behold, attached to the bottom lip of one of the siding boards was a green chrysalis that we believe is a monarch butterfly in the making. We'll keep an eye on it but fear we may be on vacation next week about the time a butterfly would emerge.

looks like a monarch butterfly chrysalis

Photo by J. Harrington

Several of the milkweed plants in the field South of the house have been ravaged by tussock moth caterpillars. We also noticed within the past couple of days seed pods forming on some of the milkweed while others are still in flower. Milkweed pods and yesterday's temperatures in the sixties (actually in the fifties overnight) bring hints that Autumn isn't that far away.

That's about it for today. We're continuing to convince ourselves that it's worth the work to get rid of as much buckthorn as we can, although we're dubious it'll accomplish much since nearby DNR properties, plus private woodlands, will continue to offer a reservoir of seeds to get planted on our lands. Then again, we've developed a strong dislike for the plant so that's as good a reason as any, we suppose.

Little Summer Poem Touching The Subject Of Faith

by Mary Oliver

Every summer
I listen and look
under the sun's brass and even
into the moonlight, but I can't hear

anything, I can't see anything --
not the pale roots digging down, nor the green
stalks muscling up,
nor the leaves
deepening their damp pleats,

nor the tassels making,
nor the shucks, nor the cobs.
And still,
every day,

the leafy fields
grow taller and thicker --
green gowns lofting up in the night,
showered with silk.

And so, every summer,
I fail as a witness, seeing nothing --
I am deaf too
to the tick of the leaves,

the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet --
all of it
happening
beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum.

And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in the dirt

swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear?

One morning
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn's beautiful body
is sure to be there.