We've entered the anise season #phenology

The local anise hyssop plants have come into bloom. As we were sorting out whether the plants along our walk are blue giant hyssop (Agastache foeniculum) or purple giant hyssop (Agastache scrophulariifolia), we came across a web page of the Minnesota Herb Society informing us that International Herb Association has named Agastache foeniculum the 2019 Herb of the Year. Although the Better Half disagrees with us, she remembers buying blue something [probably a cultivar], we're declaring the plants to be purple giant hyssop, based on our observation of a green calyx and our opinion that the undersides of the leaves are green, not whitish or grayish. However, as always when it comes to identification of flora, we stand prepared to be corrected. Maybe we have a hybrid blue-purple giant?

Agastache foeniculum (we think) 2019 Herb of the Year

Photo by J. Harrington

We have no idea what the little white spots are on the leaves. Eggs of something or some disease that attacks leaves? We'll keep watch and see if we can see whatever comes next.

what are these white spots?

Photo by J. Harrington

Hummingbirds have been consuming about 1½ to 2 cups of nectar daily. We thinks that's a sign they're getting ready to migrate in the not too distant future. Yes, there are at lease three female ruby-throated hummingbirds still chasing each other away from the feeder, and, these days, being chased away by bees and/or yellowjackets. There's also an immature male cardinal showing up regularly at the sunflower feeder. His color pattern is a brownish-reddish mixture when standing on the feeder and the first time we saw hime we weren't sure what we were looking at. As he flies away, he turns more red and his shape turns cardinalish, so that's one mystery bird eliminated. (No pictures yet, though.)

At least for now, we're back to a time of year when the cooler overnight temperatures present us with charming, soft, misty mornings which we much prefer to "dog days of August."

Lost Dog

Ellen Bass

It's just getting dark, fog drifting in,
damp grasses fragrant with anise and mint,
and though I call his name
until my voice cracks,
there's no faint tinkling
of tag against collar, no sleek
black silhouette with tall ears rushing
toward me through the wild radish.

As it turns out, he's trotted home,
tracing the route of his trusty urine.
Now he sprawls on the deep red rug, not dead,
not stolen by a car on West Cliff Drive.

Every time I look at him, the wide head
resting on outstretched paws,
joy does another lap around the racetrack
of my heart. Even in sleep
when I turn over to ease my bad hip,
I'm suffused with contentment.

If I could lose him like this every day
I'd be the happiest woman alive.

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