mid-May report: better a week or so late than never #phenology

Our pear tree is finally coming into bloom, but not yet as much as in the picture. It's about a week late, maybe a little more than that, compared to 2017 as shown. What we're unsure of is if 2017 was a typical year, although this graphic indicates it was probably close to normal, with this year being more of an anomaly. That's supported by the May 13th status of Spring report from the USA National Phenology Network.

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pear tree blooming: May 10, 2017

Photo by J. Harrington

In the east, spring leaf out is 1-2 weeks early in the upper Southeast, and 1-2 weeks late across the Great Plains, southern Midwest and Mid-Atlantic. (Emphasis added)

We're almost finished with this year's planting of flowers and bushes. The Better Half has handled most of the flower planting. We dug some larger holes for a few bushes we're trying out, if I can trap enough pocket gophers to protect their roots.

prairie smoke: May 10, 2017

Photo by J. Harrington

If it doesn't rain hard all weekend, we'll take another look to see if the prairie smoke flowers have emerged. A week or so ago they hadn't, again unlike 2017 when they were about ready to open up around May 10. While we're at it we'll also take a peek to see if we can spot any trillium blooming.

Still no signs of scarlet tanagers or indigo buntings, but, for the most part, we're beginning to enjoy a typical, if tardy, Spring around here. We'll be pleased when there's more natural forage for the bear(s), because we're getting tired of returning the compost drum to an upright position.

Franco, the Better Half's rescue dog, May 16, 2011

Photo by J. Harrington

One last thing for today. According to our records, it's been eight years since Franco the rescue dog came to his forever home with us. Please join us in wishing him many more happy returns of the day.

Wildflowers

By Reginald Gibbons

Coleridge carefully wrote down a whole page

of them, all beginning with the letter b.

Guidebooks preserve our knowledge

of their hues and shapes, their breeding.

Many poems have made delicate word-chimes—

like wind-chimes not for wind but for the breath of man—

out of their lovely names.

At the edge of the prairie in a cabin

when thunder comes closer to thump the roof hard

a few of them—in a corner, brittle in a dry jar

where a woman’s thoughtful hand left them to fade—

seem to blow with the announcing winds outside

as the rain begins to fall on all their supple kin

of all colors, under a sky of one color, or none.

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