Should only monarchs reign over milkweed?

Once again this year we've not seen any monarch caterpillars on our abundance of milkweed plants. Numerous monarch butterflies have been visiting our swamp milkweed and common milkweed plants, but nary a caterpiggly have we found.

several instars of milkweed tussock moth caterpillars

Photo by J. Harrington

On the other hand, we have an overabundance of milkweed tussock moth caterpillars (Euchaetes egle) on several of the milkweed plants near the house and along the road. It did take us awhile to identify the creatures that have been decimating the common milkweed plants. Several were eaten right down to the stem and even parts of that looked like they were missing.

monarch butterfly not laying eggs on blazing star

Photo by J. Harrington

Some monarch butterfly supporters have a longer list of monarch pests, including the tussock moth caterpillar. Fortunately for our ecosystems, the basic recommendation is to live and let live. If necessary, plant more milkweed of a variety of types. They also suggest that

Exterminating all milkweed pests can have unintended consequences to your local ecosystem. If you want to boost the survival rate of your garden monarchs without tampering with mother nature, try raising a few indoors.

We've seen, but not read carefully, some reports that monarchs raised indoors don't migrate naturally. Our inclination is to do what we can to improve the available habitat and let Mother Nature take it from there. This is pretty much consistent with the following conclusion from an Ohio State University blog:

I support monarch recovery.  However, we should embrace all native insects with equal affection; I mean this figuratively since tussock moth caterpillars have defensive hairs.  The tussock moths should enjoy the same natural born rights to milkweeds as monarchs.  The bottom line:  liberty, equality, and fraternity for all insects that you may find sharing milkweeds with monarchs.

Milkweed

By Bradford Tice

I tell myself softly, this is how love begins—

the air alive with something inconceivable,

seeds of every imaginable possibility

floating across the wet grasses, under

the thin arms of ferns. It drifts like snow

or old ash, settling on the dust of the roadways

as you and I descend into thickets, flanked

by the fragrance of honeysuckle and white

primrose.

I recall how my grandmother imagined

these wanderers were living beings,

some tiny phylum yet to be classified as life.

She would say they reminded her of maidens

decked in white dresses, waltzing through air.

Even after I showed her the pods from which

they sprang, blossoming like tiny spiders,

she refused to believe.

Now, standing beside you in the crowded

autumn haze, I watch them flock, emerge from

brittle stalks, bursting upon the world as

young lovers do—trysting in the tall grasses,

resting fingers lightly in tousled hair.

Listen, and you can hear them whisper

in the rushes, gazing out at us, wondering—

what lives are these? 

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Filling time

Sometimes, life's coincidences are a little scary. Late last week we lost a filling in one of our molars. Today, one of the most delightful days of Summer this year, we spent at the dentist. In fact, we were surprised she's even speaking to us, it's been so long since we last visited. During the four or five days between the loss of a filling and and the replacement / repair of that filling, we have been extremely grateful that we were not suffering an aching tooth due to the missing filling. (We haven't written about this before because we didn't want to jinx ourselves.)

As we were killing filling time before heading to the dentist this morning, we read a few more pages of one of our latest book acquisitions intended to lead to self-improvement. [see below] That's when we encountered ENJOYING YOUR NONTOOTHACHE.

Here's the critical excerpt, for those not currently suffering a toothache: "If my tooth hurt, this is exactly what I'd be wishing for. I'd believe that I would be so happy if only my tooth felt okay." The fact that we read exactly this page with precisely these words under our current circumstances suggests quite strongly to us that we had best give the reading of and exercises in the book our utmost attention. We, along with many of you we suspect, have been letting the times and the customs diminish our humanity and we don't like that. Time to do something about it, something like learning to be grateful for lots that we take for granted.

When we were older and knew everything we needed to know, like sometime last week, we might have needed to have the proverbial brick wall fall on us. But, as Dylan wrote in My Back Pages:

Ah, but I was so much older then
I’m younger than that now

The coincidence of enjoying a non-toothache experience that might well have been otherwise, and then reading we should learn to appreciate what is working and enjoyable in our lives is our metaphorical brick wall for this week. Let's now assume we succeed in attaining a necessary degree of youthfulness to enjoy as much as we can of each moment we have. That's when we turn to Dylan's wish from parents for their children. Imagine how much nicer the world would be and how much happier our lives would be if we could all remain

Forever Young

Written by: Bob Dylan

May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
May your song always be sung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

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Summer visitors #phenology

This morning, as we were going and coming through the garage to exchange one tool for another, we kept disturbing a "black" butterfly. We think it was a red-spotted purple also known as white admiral. We've seen each variant on the driveway at different times, especially when there's muddy spots they seem to feed at.

white admiral butterfly

Photo by J. Harrington

red-spotted purple butterfly

Photo by J. Harrington

Purple finches, at least that's who we think they are, have returned to the feeders, along with the usual suspects of goldfinches, woodpeckers, cardinals, grosbeaks, etc. Our location is in this bird's Winter range and only a little bit South of its breeding range. The folks at Cornell note that:

This species moves very erratically from year to year, so if you don’t have them this year, there’s always a chance they’ll arrive next year.

purple finch at sunflower feeder

Photo by J. Harrington

We're sorry to report that our latest effort at pocket gopher trapping was an unmitigated failure. Once again the critter seems to have buried the traps without springing them or getting caught. Time for some remedial studies and a more careful inspection of where main tunnels may be relative to the mounds of earth gophers pile up. We have never attained the proficiency at these assessments that we would like to have, but the extra digging does give us exercise we would otherwise forego.

Again today we note our gratitude that yesterday's tornados passed to our North and to our South. They also missed the homes of the Daughter Person and Son-In-Law and that of the S-I-L's mother, although it got more exciting than any of us needed.

Butterflies

By Samuel Green

Some days her main job seems to be

to welcome back the Red Admiral

as it lights on a leaf of the yellow

forsythia. It is her duty to stop & lean

over to take in how it folds & opens

its wings. Then, too, there is the common

Tiger Swallowtail, which seems to her

entirely uncommon in how it moves

about the boundaries of this clearing

we made so many years ago. If she leaves

the compost bucket unwashed to rescue

a single tattered wing from under the winter

jasmine or the blue flowers of the periwinkle

& then spends a whole afternoon at our round

oak table surrounded by field guides

& tea until she is sure—yes—that it belongs to

a Lorquin's Admiral, or that singular

mark is one of the great cat's eyes

of a Milbert's Tortoiseshell, then she is

simply practicing her true vocation

learning the story behind the blue beads

of the Mourning Cloak, the silver commas

of the Satyr Anglewing, the complex shades

of the Spring Azure, moving through this life

letting her sweet, light attention land

on one luminous thing after another.

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Conservation heroes of the American heart?

Rainy Sunday, quiet time, as long as the tornado watch we're under stays just a watch. We took a loaf of sourdough-tart dried cherries-white chocolate chips out of the oven a bit ago. We'll do a taste test after it's cooled a little more. Both the Better Half and the baker completed a totally unbiased taste test and concurred that the bread is "very tasty." The baker does find it a bit more moist than ideal and is contemplating reducing the amount of water by 25 g. the next time he does this recipe.

Sunday storm clouds

Photo by J. Harrington

[UPDATE: as near as we can tell from tv reports, one tornado passed several miles Southeast of us and another passed several more miles Northeast of us. So much for quiet Sundays!]

Speaking of Sunday, today's Star Tribune has this opinion piece: Minnesota's urban-rural divide is no lie. Although we can generally concur with many of the points made by the author, we believe that the piece omits one or two really significant themes. First, we're beginning to wonder if one of our major problems with politics is politics. What is there, if anything, in our two-party system that would cause us to focus on what we have in common rather than on the differences that separate us? We're aware of the fact that Britain, with its parliamentary system, is struggling with many issues similar to our urban-rural divide, so multiple political parties clearly aren't a panacea.

We don't want to take the time at the moment to recheck the source for specific quotations, but Miriam Horn's Rancher, Farmer, Fisherman [RFF] has a number of stories about people from very different perspectives and backgrounds finding ways to sit down, talk through their differences and find ways to create better outcomes than if opposing sides just use government agencies as a football to be kicked through a goalpost. We more and more often find ourselves wondering why, if some folks can do this kind of problem-solving on their own, more of us don't. When we first read RFF, we neglected to take the kind of notes that would help us better describe how it was done and how some of the efforts in the book worked around those "who would rather fight than win." In fact, our note-taking wasn't that great the second time through. Since many of the issues facing U.S. and the rest of the world, and resource issues were the driving factors in Horn's book, perhaps some of you might want to take a look at the book and see if the tactics and strategies can be adapted and applied elsewhere. We know of a number of major mining issues and projects being fought over; few governments have adopted an adequate response to climate breakdown; the sixth extinction continues as a related crisis.

When I first read the book, I was astounded to learn about conservation heroes of the American heartland. I didn't think there were any. Maybe if we look hard enough, we can find the heroes we need in state capitals and Washington, D.C.. Real conservation is what we need to preserve and restore our natural and democratic resources.

The Hero

By John Unterecker

Mortal and full of praise,

I watch the enchanted hero busy at his chores:

desert, tundra,

prairie restless

under an easy stride.

Dagger in belt, sword

slapping thigh, he passes

from sight, the restored land

sprung airily

to green praise.

    Arachnid webs entangle life.

    A busyness of thread

    weaves silk into night—

    the long shudder of moonlight,

    a transfixed eye shuddering.

    Nothing is so easy as death, I try to say.

    But the hard fact of glazed eyes, the boy turned to

        solitude, lies

    face up in the center of all webs, roads

    unwinding stubble.

                                     Whoever is alone

    walks brittle filaments, late

    stars smudged on dawn, a night sky’s frayed

    dawn.

              Dare we evaluate life:

    This hero’s gesture charms eternity?

Someone who paused here once on an ordinary day,

troubled by the impatience of his calling,

set up a hasty signpost:

“Toward…”

    Nothing is so scarred

    as this place, shards of parched

    cloth trampled by footprints coiling

    crazed centers.

                             Fresh with spring, light breezes play

    on dust.

                      A whisper of rain. Ropes of skeined thunder

       twist sky.

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Has Summer started to turn the circle?

Although we can see the start of August from here, we're not quite there yet. Some local trees don't seem to care. Sumac and maples have begun to change colors. Not many, and in scattered locations, but still enough to surprise us since the recent weather has been classic Minnesota Summer. Our surprise probably says more about us than it does about the trees, since a year ago, in early August, we were down in the Driftless Area and the sumacs there were bright red, as you can see.

early August sumac

Photo by J. Harrington

Each year, as Summer wanes and Autumn waxes, and we listen to Joni Mitchell's absolutely wonderful The Circle Game, the lyrics trigger a nostalgic, almost melancholy, awareness that some time ago we had reached the age at which we began to drag our heels to slow the circle down. Perhaps the word we're looking for is the Welsh word hiraeth.

late August maple leaves

Photo by J. Harrington

With what seems an early start to color change this year, our other pictures of maple color in August were all taken around the last week of next month, we may have to dig in our heels even more. An early start to Autumn will be really painful if it means, not a longer Autumn, but an early end to our favorite season.

dragonfly awaiting capture inside a jar

Photo by J. Harrington

Enough of that negative thinking. Let's enjoy listening to The Circle Game sung by Joni, or, another favorite rendition, Tom Rush. If you're not familiar with the lyrics and want to sing along (highly recommended) here are they are:

The Circle Game

by Joni Mitchell

Yesterday a child came out to wonder
Caught a dragonfly inside a jar
Fearful when the sky was full of thunder
And tearful at the falling of a star

Then the child moved ten times round the seasons
Skated over ten clear frozen streams
Words like when you're older must appease him
And promises of someday make his dreams

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game *

Sixteen springs and sixteen summers gone now
Cartwheels turn to car wheels thru the town
And they tell him take your time it won't be long now
Till you drag your feet to slow the circles down

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game

So the years spin by and now the boy is twenty
Though his dreams have lost some grandeur coming true
There'll be new dreams maybe better dreams and plenty
Before the last revolving year is through

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game 

© Siquomb Publishing Company

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Jeers to triathletes, Cheers for artisans

This weekend, particularly Sunday the 28th, might be a good time to avoid much of Southern Chisago County, unless you don't mind being delayed by a bunch of triathlon participants clogging many of the roads, including a Highway 95 crossing. Here's a link to the event's web site if you want the gory details.

a local road but not on the route, we hope

Photo by J. Harrington

Several years ago part of one of the courses included a stretch of our road. We weren't particularly pleased about that. Hindering the travels of local folks and ordinary visitors to accommodate triathlon participants aggravates us old curmudgeons. We don't object to the use of the roads, but to the way the local constabulary too often holds vehicular traffic at intersections to permit triathletes to move freely. And, probably even more curmudgeonly, we really don't give a damn if the event does benefit local businesses.

our homemade artisan sourdough bread

Photo by J. Harrington

On a more cheerful note, we call to your attention to a new addition in our listing of local artisans with whom we've done business [right han column, top]. The Marine Mills Folk School keeps offering more and more classes, several of which we find to be of greater than passing interest. Plus, we're quite grateful that we don't have to head for one of our favorite, but very distant, places in Minnesota, Grand Marais, to enjoy learning artisanal skills and practices. We invited the Daughter Person to join us for a sourdough class earlier this year. The Better Half has taken, we believe, a couple of classes in weaving and felting. We're pleased that the good folks that started the Folk School did so and that they seem to be having a decent degree of success. Lifelong learning is something to which we think everyone should aspire. And, the addition of a Folk School to our extended neighborhood provides one more thing about which we can express gratitude for living where we do.

A Shropshire Lad 19: The time you won your town the race

By A. E. Housman

The time you won your town the race 

We chaired you through the market-place; 

Man and boy stood cheering by, 

And home we brought you shoulder-high. 

To-day, the road all runners come, 

Shoulder-high we bring you home, 

And set you at your threshold down, 

Townsman of a stiller town. 

Smart lad, to slip betimes away 

From fields where glory does not stay 

And early though the laurel grows 

It withers quicker than the rose. 

Eyes the shady night has shut 

Cannot see the record cut, 

And silence sounds no worse than cheers 

After earth has stopped the ears: 

Now you will not swell the rout 

Of lads that wore their honours out, 

Runners whom renown outran 

And the name died before the man. 

So set, before its echoes fade, 

The fleet foot on the sill of shade, 

And hold to the low lintel up 

The still-defended challenge-cup. 

And round that early-laurelled head 

Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead, 

And find unwithered on its curls 

The garland briefer than a girl's.

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A never-ending story

Today's will be a very short posting. We're tired. This morning we basically finished removing buckthorn from all but a small, clump surrounding a black cherry tree behind the house. We even have photographic proof. Now we can move on to the buckthorn that's invaded the woods in from of the house.

Here's the Before picture:

slope with buckthorn

Photo by J. Harrington

Here's the After picture:

slope without buckthorn

Photo by J. Harrington

Here's what's left:

last bit to go

Photo by J. Harrington

The Before photo was taken a couple of years ago, which means we already had one season of pulling buckthorn behind us. Way in the background, downslope, is where the cherry tree with what's remaining can be seen in the after photo. To paraphrase a line from the Byrds, "I'll feel a whole lot better with [it] gone." On the other hand, Mary Oliver might well have had a different view.

Mindful

by Mary Oliver

Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for -
to look, to listen,

to lose myself
inside this soft world -
to instruct myself
over and over

in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant -
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help

but grow wise
with such teachings
as these -
the untrimmable light

of the world,
the ocean's shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

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How to choose a POTUS

Listening, off and on, to the Congressional hearings today, it's obvious to me just how far wrong we've gone in our choice for president. One of my favorite politicians, from a short list, to be sure, was and remains Robert F. Kennedy. I mention this because, come November 3, 2020, we have the opportunity and responsibility to again vote for a President of the United States. As all too often occurs, the Democrats, with an abundance of announced candidates, seem more committed to destroying each other than defeating the Republicans. Several of the Democratic presidential candidates, in my opinion, would better serve our country by running for the Senate and helping to flip that from Red to Blue. The idea of an unemployed Mitch McConnell leaves me giddy. For reasons beyond my comprehension, his campaign was foolish enough to ask me for a donation. When Hell freezes over with me in it! Where were we? Oh, yeah, thinking about RFK and voting for a president.

two eagles: should we choose one on appearance alone?

Photo by J. Harrington

I believe, but will never know nor can prove, RFK would have made a fantastic president. He ran in a time before we were embroiled in Russian interference, collusion, climate breakdown, the sixth extinction and a variety of similar issues. He never lived to finish his campaign, but demonstrated a compassion and farsightedness that would have served us well, then or now. This morning I once again skimmed through a speech he gave, one with some of the best articulations I've ever read about what we need to address the issues we faced then, and must confront now. Here's one of my favorite excerpts:

For we as a people, we as a people, are strong enough, we are brave enough to be told the truth of where we stand.  This country needs honesty and candor in its political life and from the President of the United States.  But I don't want to run for the presidency - I don't want America to make the critical choice of direction and leadership this year without confronting that truth.  I don't want to win support of votes by hiding the American condition in false hopes or illusions.  I want us to find out the promise of the future, what we can accomplish here in the United States, what this country does stand for and what is expected of us in the years ahead.  And I also want us to know and examine where we've gone wrong.  And I want all of us, young and old, to have a chance to build a better country and change the direction of the United States of America.

Clearly that is almost the antithesis of today's politics and has monumental relevance for next year's choices, but it's not the part of that speech that most resonates with me. That part is the following:

If we believe that we, as Americans, are bound together by a common concern for each other, then an urgent national priority is upon us.  We must begin to end the disgrace of this other America.
   
And this is one of the great tasks of leadership for us, as individuals and citizens this year.  But even if we act to erase material poverty, there is another greater task, it is to confront the poverty of satisfaction - purpose and dignity - that afflicts us all.  Too much and for too long, we seemed to have surrendered personal excellence and community values in the mere accumulation of material things.  Our Gross National Product, now, is over $800 billion dollars a year, but that Gross National Product - if we judge the United States of America by that - that Gross National Product counts air pollution and cigarette advertising, and ambulances to clear our highways of carnage.  It counts special locks for our doors and the jails for the people who break them.  It counts the destruction of the redwood and the loss of our natural wonder in chaotic sprawl.  It counts napalm and counts nuclear warheads and armored cars for the police to fight the riots in our cities.  It counts Whitman's rifle and Speck's knife, and the television programs which glorify violence in order to sell toys to our children.  Yet the gross national product does not allow for the health of our children, the quality of their education or the joy of their play.  It does not include the beauty of our poetry or the strength of our marriages, the intelligence of our public debate or the integrity of our public officials.  It measures neither our wit nor our courage, neither our wisdom nor our learning, neither our compassion nor our devotion to our country, it measures everything in short, except that which makes life worthwhile.  And it can tell us everything about America except why we are proud that we are Americans.

Henceforward, I will use these values, and those contained in the rest of the speech, as the basis on which I will judge each and every politician, and political cause, that seeks my vote or support. The excerpts are taken from Remarks at the University of Kansas, March 18, 1968. They don't make it immediately obvious which candidate warrants my support, but they do make it absolutely clear how I can go about deciding. That's more than I had this time yesterday. I'm grateful for that progress and suggest you wouldn't go too far wrong following the same course of action. Support those, and only those, who demonstrate the honesty and integrity and wisdom that Robert Kennedy displayed.

Once the World Was Perfect

By Joy Harjo

Once the world was perfect, and we were happy in that world.

Then we took it for granted.

Discontent began a small rumble in the earthly mind.

Then Doubt pushed through with its spiked head.

And once Doubt ruptured the web,

All manner of demon thoughts

Jumped through—

We destroyed the world we had been given

For inspiration, for life—

Each stone of jealousy, each stone

Of fear, greed, envy, and hatred, put out the light.

No one was without a stone in his or her hand.

There we were,

Right back where we had started.

We were bumping into each other

In the dark.

And now we had no place to live, since we didn't know

How to live with each other.

Then one of the stumbling ones took pity on another

And shared a blanket.

A spark of kindness made a light.

The light made an opening in the darkness.

Everyone worked together to make a ladder.

A Wind Clan person climbed out first into the next world,

And then the other clans, the children of those clans, their children,

And their children, all the way through time—

To now, into this morning light to you.

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Reaching the cusp of Summer #phenology

Goldenrod's yellow flowers are appearing along roadsides. Late-blooming milkweed has popped up all over a nearby field. Wild bergamot has come into bloom. Bees are enjoying the flowering feral oregano that's taking over much of the back yard. We think that's a sign that we've now climbed to the top of Summer's hill and have begun to slip-slide our way toward a seasonal change, albeit weeks from now. Today the cup is shifting from half-full to half-empty. Somewhere or other recently we read that, statistically speaking, this week is the hottest week of Summer. Last night's cool temperatures were delightful. Their hint of Autumn encouraged us to feel more like Tigger instead of our usual Eeyore.

field of wild bergamot

Photo by J. Harrington

The tractor is back. It seems pretty happy after spending a little time with the mechanics. We promptly put it (her?) to work today cutting the grass. The Daughter Person and Son-In-Law have named each of their vehicles with various women's names. We're faced with uncertainty about the tractor's gender and will have a conversation with those who practice vehicle naming in the near future.

More buckthorn and prickly ash has been pulled, thanks to the return of the tractor. Soon we'll take an "after picture," to mark a small accomplishment before we move on to the next location and start pulling again. We've yet to put a match to last Winter's brush pile but remain hopeful that an opportune combination of rain and calm winds will present the conditions we're looking for. If not sooner, we'll try for an August 7th ignition in recognition of astronomical mid-Summer.

whitetail doe exiting a field of alyssum

Photo by J. Harrington

Our fields are full of hoary alyssum but we don't pasture horses so that's a non-issue for now. Minnesota Department of Natural Resources lists it as an invasive species but it doesn't seem to be on the Department of Agriculture's lists, despite being poisonous to horses. (We suppose it would be too much to hope for a definitive, consolidated list of invasive species.)

After all the recent stories about new and more sickening types of ticks spreading due to climate breakdown, we may revisit the question of the chickens the Better Half wants to keep. Were it not for the local bear and coyote population, we'd find it easier and probably more rewarding to proceed.

Midsummer

William Cullen Bryant- 1794-1878

A power is on the earth and in the air,
  From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid,
  And shelters him in nooks of deepest shade,
From the hot steam and from the fiery glare.
Look forth upon the earth—her thousand plants
  Are smitten; even the dark sun-loving maize
  Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze;
The herd beside the shaded fountain pants;
For life is driven from all the landscape brown;
  The bird hath sought his tree, the snake his den,
  The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men
Drop by the sunstroke in the populous town:
  As if the Day of Fire had dawned, and sent
  Its deadly breath into the firmament.

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When the zoo has humans in the cage/house

Part of the pleasure (and occasional pain) of country living is that the neighbors have no respect for our personal space. A bear has tipped over the compost drum, dumped the trash can, and the recycling barrel, and climbed onto the deck to check those bird feeders, in the process trashing several panels on the screen porch below the deck. Once, while on that deck, said bear felt compelled to relieve him- or her-self, or perhaps it was an editorial comment on the lack of bird feeders.

red-winged blackbird and red-bellied woodpecker on feeder

Photo by J. Harrington

We put out bird feeders for the birds, even the woodpeckers that sometimes feel obligated to drum on the house. Uninvited neighbors who help themselves to those feeders, in addition to a neighborhood black bear, have been: red squirrels; gray squirrels; whitetail deer; plus the chipmunks, moles, voles and critters of similar ilk that feast on the seeds dropped by those actually feeding at the feeders. Bees and downy woodpeckers feel free to help themselves to the oriole-hummingbird feeders' nectar supply. Even ants somehow discovered the nectar feeder attached to a front window and climbed in until the sugar water was full of drowned ants.

green tree frog on front stoop rail

Photo by J. Harrington

This morning we noticed a tree frog that was literally hanging out on one of our living room picture windows. Maybe catching some of those annoying little black flies that have been filling the air recently. Other frogs seem to enjoy the shade under the bird bath or, on occasion, decide to sun themselves on the deck railing.

red squirrel at bird bath

Photo by J. Harrington

Before we had new cementitious siding installed, one or more red squirrels had gnawed through the cedar shingles to gain entrance into the house. Another one sat today on a front stoop post as if it owned the place. There's a phoebe that, having had its nest repeatedly removed from over the front door, moved to nesting over the motion-sensing yard lights and then to a locale under the house eaves.

We enjoy the occasional garter, hog-nosed or bull snake that slithers through, especially since some of them may infrequently feast on one of the pocket gophers that eats the roots off of almost everything we plant. It's startling to occasionally encounter a full grown wild turkey on the deck railing or a small flock in the front yard, but we wish them well and happy hunting for the ticks lurking in the fields around the house.

If we had a choice, would we choose these creatures as neighbors? Possibly not, and we'd be the poorer for it. As a matter of fact, learning to live with a variety of diverse neighbors sort of takes us back to the Dorchester neighborhood we grew up in in Boston. Our human neighbors were quite an ethnic mix and we all tolerated, if we didn't love, our neighbors. Sometimes that's the best we can hope for. Too often these days tolerance would be a major improvement in our cultural climate.

Marching

By Jim Harrison

At dawn I heard among bird calls 

the billions of marching feet in the churn 

and squeak of gravel, even tiny feet 

still wet from the mother's amniotic fluid, 

and very old halting feet, the feet 

of the very light and very heavy, all marching 

but not together, criss-crossing at every angle 

with sincere attempts not to touch, not to bump 

into each other, walking in the doors of houses 

and out the back door forty years later, finally 

knowing that time collapses on a single 

plateau where they were all their lives, 

knowing that time stops when the heart stops 

as they walk off the earth into the night air.

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'Tis the time of kings, monarchs, that is #phenology

Until today, we've seen monarch butterflies occasionally, in ones or twos. Today we saw at least a half dozen as we drove home. According to the Journey North web site, monarchs first showed up around here from late May to mid- June. Those were first sightings only. We suspect what we're now seeing is a third generation phase:

The second generation of monarch butterflies is born in May and June, and then the third generation will be born in July and August. These monarch butterflies will go through exactly the same four stage life cycle as the first generation did, dying two to six weeks after it becomes a beautiful monarch butterfly.

monarch butterflies on blazing star

Photo by J. Harrington

Seeing the few early arrivals in May is like seeing the first robin of Spring. Later, watching a multitude of monarchs is comparable to seeing goldfinches flock at the feeders until they disappear for nesting season. Both rarity and abundance have their place. Each brings joy of a different type, but not different degree. The first raises hope, the latter satisfies it, for the nonce.

Canada thistle in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

Another sign we're entering the peak of Summer is the wash of lilac shades appearing in roadside verges as thistles come into bloom. Goldfinches, which nest about now, are reported to use plant down, such as thistle, to line their nests.

Finally, for today, time for us to acknowledge, after all the complaining we did last week about the weather, that it has much improved. Today has been a pleasure. We look forward to more of the same this week ahead.

A River

By John Poch

God knows the law of life is death,

and you can feel it in your warbler neck,

your river-quick high stick wrist

at the end of day. But the trophies:

a goldfinch tearing up a pink thistle,

a magpie dipping her wing tips

in a white cloud, an ouzel barreling 

hip-high upstream with a warning.

You wish you had a river. To make

a river, it takes some mountains.

Some rain to watershed. You wish

you had a steady meadow and pink thistles

bobbing at the border for your horizons,

pale robins bouncing their good postures

in the spruce shadows. Instead, the law

of life comes for you like three men 

and a car. In your dreams, you win them over

with your dreams: a goldfinch tearing up 

a pink thistle. A magpie so slow 

she knows how to keep death at bay, 

she takes her time with argument 

and hides her royal blue in black. 

Shy as a blue grouse, nevertheless God

doesn’t forget his green mountains.

You wish you had a river.

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A bridge too far?

It's the time of year when we used to see lots of Canada geese along and about the road edge going through the Sunrise River pools in the Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area. This year we've seen very few geese or their goslings. We're not sure why but we have a prime suspect. The water in the Sunrise pools has been unusually high all Summer, but we don't think that's the basic problem. The geese used to hang out along the shoulder and into the road near where the river flowed under the highway. We surmise that a few too many motorists had close, or too close, calls with a goose or geese.

Canada geese "roadside"

Photo by J. Harrington

Several years ago, the county replaced the bridge crossing the river and the conduits through which the river flowed. When they did that, they added very long stretches of guard rail, separating the roadway from most of the shoulder. The geese no longer hang out along that stretch of roadway and marsh. We can sort of understand that, but what leaves us scratching our head is why the geese didn't decide to congregate on the North side of the road, where there's still quite a bit of marsh and shoulder not separated by a guardrail.

bridge construction: bulleting board

Photo by J. Harrington

We admit that the new and improved road is probably safer for both motorists and geese, but we also admit we would have much preferred to see a lower speed limit and a "goose crossing" sign instead.

The Bridge Builder

By Will Allen Dromgoole

An old man going a lone highway,

Came, at the evening cold and gray,

To a chasm vast and deep and wide.

Through which was flowing a sullen tide

The old man crossed in the twilight dim,

The sullen stream had no fear for him;

But he turned when safe on the other side

And built a bridge to span the tide.

“Old man,” said a fellow pilgrim near,

“You are wasting your strength with building here;

Your journey will end with the ending day,

You never again will pass this way;

You’ve crossed the chasm, deep and wide,

Why build this bridge at evening tide?”

The builder lifted his old gray head;

“Good friend, in the path I have come,” he said,

“There followed after me to-day

A youth whose feet must pass this way.

This chasm that has been as naught to me

To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be;

He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;

Good friend, I am building this bridge for him!”

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Damping down Summer's spirits

Someone, or something, tipped over the recycling barrel last night. The top was still closed tight so there was no mess to pick up. The trash can, once it gets used, gets moved into the garage. That's inconvenient but less so than cleaning up the mess after a visit from the neighborhood bear. At least we continue to assume it's a bear and not raccoons. We doubt that a raccoon or two would have bent the hanger pole for the front of house bird feeder. That was the visit signature a week or so ago. Maybe it is time to consider adding a trail cam so we can see what, or who, is going on, if it's not too misty or foggy.

Summer: misty morning

Photo by J. Harrington

Early this morning the fields were full of mist, or, maybe it was ground fog. Windows stayed covered with condensation for most of the morning. We're not sure what left the "track" through the condensation shown below, but suspect it may have been a tree or gray frog. We're hopeful that today marks the peak of Summer's humidity and temperatures. Next week looks promising for getting some outdoor chores done, temperatures should be cooler and the dew point lower. All of which presumes we all make it safely through this afternoon's heat advisory and severe thunderstorm warnings.

whose track in the condensation covering the window?

Photo by J. Harrington

Those Summer Evenings

My father would, with a little squeak
and a shudder in the water pipes,
turn on the garden hose, and sprinkle
honeysuckle bushes clipped
to window height, so that later,
as we slept atop our rumpled sheets
with windows open to the scritch
of crickets, whatever breeze
might flirt its way between
our house and the neighbors’
would brush across the honeysuckle,
sweet and wet, and keep us cool.

– Ted Kooser, from Splitting an Order

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The prickly sides of Summer

Yesterday was meteorological mid-Summer. Astronomical mid-Summer arrives on August 7. About midway between those two dates, on July 29, we will reach Earth Overshoot Day. That's for the world average. The United States reached it on March 15. Only four countries reached their Overshoot Day earlier in the year. (Later is better.) As far as we're concerned, the only options are whether we end up with a hard or a soft landing. The laws of nature will always take precedence over the laws of humans in the long run.

sandburs on their stems

Photo by J. Harrington

Of more immediate note, yesterday we plucked the year's first sandburs (Cenchrus longispinus) from our roadside gravel strip. We can now add them to the other troublesome annoyances of mosquitos, deer flies, ticks, heat, humidity, thunderstorms and occasional tornadoes. Once upon a time we thought we liked Summer better than Winter. After several decades of noticing the every single year brings Summertime "sandburs, mosquitos, deer flies, ticks, heat, humidity, thunderstorms," but not every Winter brings a blizzard or a polar vortex to our neighborhood, we have to admit we're questioning "what were we thinking?" We seriously doubt that we'll live long enough to admit a preference for Winter over Summer, despite the differential in types of annoyances. Many years ago a friend pointed out that you can always put on more clothes but you can only take off everything. Even that wasn't enough to overcome our level of discomfort at being chilled to the bone which, come to think of it, seems to happen as often with Summer's air conditioning as it does when the temperature drops and the wind picks up during a Winter storm.

We're rambling and prattling, we know. The heat must have gotten to us, or maybe we've got a sandbur in our jeans. How long is it until November 3, 2020? 474 days. Between next Summer's weather, climate breakdown incidents, and the hot air blowing from political campaigns, we bet next year will be one for the record books. We also fervently hope that we're wrong about that. We haven't asked them yet but we suspect both dogs and the Better Half join us in that wish. Last time we checked, none of that trio liked "sandburs, mosquitos, deer flies, ticks, heat, humidity, thunderstorms" any more than we do.

cruel, cruel summer

By D. A. Powell

either the postagestamp-bright inflorescence of wild mustard 

or the drab tassel of prairie smoke, waving its dirty garments 

either the low breeze through the cracked window 

or houseflies and drawn blinds to spare us the calid sun 

one day commands the next to lie down, to scatter:      we're done 

with allegiance, devotion, the malicious idea of what's eternal 

picture the terrain sunk, return of the inland sea, your spectacle 

your metaphor, the scope of this twiggy dominion pulled under 

crest and crest, wave and cloud, the thunder blast and burst of swells 

this is the sum of us:      brief sneezeweed, brief yellow blaze put out 

so little, your departure, one plunk upon the earth's surface, 

one drop to bind the dust, a little mud, a field of mud 

the swale gradually submerged, gradually forgotten 

and that is all that is to be borne of your empirical trope: 

first, a congregated light, the brilliance of a meadowland in bloom 

and then the image must fail, as we must fail, as we 

graceless creatures that we are, unmake and befoul our beds 

don't tell me deluge.      don't tell me heat, too damned much heat

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