Some mysteries of country living

I don't know what happened to the Northern Plains Blazing Star we planted six or seven years ago. It's disappeared from the thick fringe around the wet spot in our back yard. I don't believe I inadvertently mowed it, but that's a possibility. Just today I noticed that three of the swamp milkweed plants are in bloom, but the Blazing Star disappearance is a mystery.

monarch butterflies on Northern Plains  Blazing-star

Photo by J. Harrington

A different mystery that got solved today is the whereabouts of the woodchuck that disappeared a couple of days ago. It is indeed the varmint that's been tunneling along the house's foundation behind the garage. Today  it appeared on the deck causing great perturbation among the dogs. Whatever prompted her or him to tunnel next to the house I don't know. There's lots of open, sandy fields with room for a burrow where someone who needs to prevent a nuisance animal from doing property damage might be more inclined to live and let live. As it is, there's already further damage done to an already deteriorating retaining wall and, if the wall lets go, it will further bury the septic tank so the project  of repairing, or more likely replacing, the retaining wall has moved near the top of the priority list. We'll get that taken care of before we plant a wildflower garden in a partially shaded location between the retaining wall and the garage.

Yesterday, when we checked, the tree frog that had moved into the bluebird house wasn't there. Today, a frog, which we presume was the same one, was back in the house and had been joined by a hornet or wasp. They seemed to be keeping a respectful distance from one another as we gently closed the door.

The Mystery of the Hunt

By Michael McClure

It’s the mystery of the hunt that intrigues me,

                   That drives us like lemmings, but cautiously—

The search for a bright square cloud—the scent of lemon verbena—

                    Or to learn rules for the game the sea otters

                                      Play in the surf.

                  It is these small things—and the secret behind them

                                    That fill the heart.

                        The pattern, the spirit, the fiery demon

                                That link them together

                      And pull their freedom into our senses,

             The smell of a shrub, a cloud, the action of animals

         —The rising, the exuberance, when the mystery is unveiled.

                                 It is these small things

                   That when brought into vision become an inferno.

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