Of Bison and Butterflies

Today’s prairie post is brought to you by the letter “B.”       

“B” is for bison, big, bored, and brown.

“B” is for barns; the prairie’s “downtown.”

 

“B” is for butterflies that brighten the blooms.

 

 

“B” is for bugs; they “zips” and they “zooms.”

 

 

“B’ is for bluestem, both big…

…and so small.

 

“B” is for beaten path, the trail through it all.

 

“B” is for brave, brawny, and bold…

 

And “B” is for beautiful; 

My tale is now told.

******

All photos copyright Cindy Crosby(top to bottom): bison (Bison bison) Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL; old barn, Dixon, IL; black swallowtail (Papilio polyxenes) on gray-headed coneflower (Ratibida pinnata) with flowering spurge (Euphorbia corollata) in the background, Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL; monarch (Danaus plexippus), author’s backyard prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; band-winged meadowhawk (Sympetrum semicinctum) with a stink bug (Halyomorpha halys), Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL; big bluestem (Andropogon gerardii) Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; little bluestem (Schizachyrium scoparium) with flowering spurge in the background (Euphorbia corollata), Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL;  trail through the tallgrass, Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL; bison (Bison bison), Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL; prairie dock (Silphium terebinthinaceum), author’s backyard prairie patch, Glen Ellyn, IL.

Beginnings

Morning dawns on the prairie.

A lone red-winged blackbird calls. No breeze rustles the brittle, bleached out stands of little bluestem; the dry stalks of prairie switchgrass. The seedpods of of St. John’s wort and other bloomers have long since cracked open and dropped their seeds. There’s the promise of something new ready to germinate.

 

Few flames from prescribed burns have touched the tallgrass here in Illinois … yet. But there is the rumor of fire.

 

The temperatures have warmed. The wind whispers “it’s time.”

 

Time for everything to begin again.

 

To burn off the old; to spark something new.

 

With the flames will go our memories of a season now past. What waits for us  …

…will build on what went before, but is still unknown.

There is a sadness in letting go of what we have.

 

Yet to not move forward– to shy away from that which that will seemingly destroy the tallgrass– is to set the prairie back. To keep it from reaching its full potential.

So we embrace the fire.

 

We accept that things will change.  

 

We realize there will be surprises. Things we don’t expect.

 

We strike the match. Say goodbye to ice and snow.

 

Watch the prairie go up in flames.

 

We wait to see what will appear.

On the other side of the fire.

All photos copyright Cindy Crosby: (top to bottom) sunrise, Meadow Lake prairie planting, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prairie grasses and Great St. John’s Wort (Hypericum pyramidatum), Meadow Lake prairie planting, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prescribed burn, Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL; Willoway Brook, The Schulenberg Prairie, Lisle, IL; eastern cottontail, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL;   prescribed burn, The Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prescribed burn sign, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; Meadow Lake prairie planting, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prescribed burn, The Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; July on the Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL;  twin fawns, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; Meadow Lake prairie planting, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prescribed burn, Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL; two-track through Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL. 

 

‘Round the December Prairie

A heavy November snow steamrolled the prairie into submission. A 50 degree day or two then melted the snow into invisibility. What’s left behind around Willoway Brook looks as if a giant paperweight has pressed the tallgrass flat.

December on the prairie opens with a brand new look. Before the deep snow, the prairie grasses brushed my shoulders, towered over my head; a thick, vertical wall. Now, in many places, a springy carpet of grasses lies under my feet.

For most of the autumn, the prairie has been drawn by an artist who loved vertical lines.

But now, with the verticals knocked to the ground, a new shape takes prominence.

Circles. One of the simplest shapes in geometry. I see them everywhere.

The prairie dock leaves, drained of their chlorophyll, remind me of a dress I once owned made of dotted swiss material.

The globes of bee balm repeat the circular pattern; clusters of tiny yawning tubular tunnels.

Sunken balls of carrion flower catch the afternoon light.

Tall coreopsis seeds dot the sky like beads suspended on wires.

Overhead, thousands of cranes are migrating south, punctuating the quiet with their cries. They circle and loop; circle and loop.

 

The gray-headed coneflower seeds have half-circle pieces missing.

Crinkled round ball galls look like they’ve dropped from another planet. Anybody home?  No sign of life inside.

Even the downy leaves of ashy sunflowers echo the pattern; try to loop  into circles.

The compass plant leaves curl into ringlets, stippled with tiny full moons.

Freckled and fanciful.

I miss November’s bold, vibrant tallgrass, upright and waving in the wind from horizon line to horizon line. A flattened prairie seems defeated, somehow. Beaten down by the elements.

But I’m glad for the unexpected gift of seeing a prairie pattern I might have otherwise missed. Losing a familiar way of viewing the world opens up a different perspective. Today, I’m seeing the prairie in the round.

Who knows what else I’ll learn to see in a new way before the year is done?

 

All photos by Cindy Crosby taken at the Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL except where noted  (top to bottom): Willoway Brook; prairie grasses, prairie clover (Dalea purpurea, Dalea candida) , prairie dock leaf (Silphium terebinthinaceum), bee balm (Monarda fistulosa) ,carrion flower, tall coreopsis; sandhill cranes; Springbrook Prairie, Naperville, IL; gray-headed coneflower (Ratibida pinnata; ball gall; ashy sunflower (Helianthus mollis); compass plant  (Silphium laciniatum);  compass plant(Silphium laciniatum).

Chasing the Light

The earth is tilting. Can you feel the shift?

On September 23, the autumn equinox brought together day and night of equal lengths. The slow slide down the dark tunnel began. Each day, a few minutes shorter. Each night, a bit longer. Do you sense the battle between the light and the dark?

The dark seems to be winning. Hello, season of slow decline.

As the light slips away, I soak up as much as I can. The first snowfall is a bonus.

The world brightens under the snow and seems to glow.

The blanket of white catches sparks of light; ignites the prairie.

Unexpected sunshine hangs crystal earrings from unlikely grasses and dry forbs; dresses them with diamonds.

The cold ices the pond, which glitters in the brief light of late afternoon by my backyard prairie.

The light pools in Willoway Brook, reflecting the savanna by the Schulenberg Prairie.

Such a season of contrast, of opposites.

Close by the tallgrass, I find a vole hole and tracks, evidence that I’m not the only one who wants to escape the dark.

Even the empty milkweed pods, bereft of their silky floss, seem luminous in the low-slung sunlight.

I’m thankful for whatever glimpses of light I can get. Whatever holds the light and reflects it. 

 

Small solaces as the world seemingly plunges into darkness. But I’m grateful for these moments. Each reflected glow. Each spark of light. Every small bright spot.

I know what’s coming. The darkest day, the winter solstice. December 21, the shortest day of the year.  Soon. Very soon.

Until then, I’ll keep looking for the light. Wherever it may be found.

All photos by Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; author’s window to the prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; SP at TMA; TMA; bee balm (Monarda fistulosa), author’s prairie, GE; asters, author’s prairie,  GE; author’s prairie pond, GE; SP savanna, SP at TMA; New Jersey tea (Ceanothus americanus) SP at TMA; vole hole and tracks, author’s prairie, GE; milkweed pod (Asclepias syriaca), author’s prairie, GE;  author’s prairie, GE;  SP at TMA; author’s prairie, GE: SP at TMA; SP at TMA.

Finding Peace in Wild Things

So much fear in the world right now.

It’s catching. I find myself jumpy, anxious. Feeling like nothing will change. Up against a wall of doubt.

When the world seems like an impossible place, I go to the prairie. This time, instead of going alone, I go with friends. I need the reminder of how much we need each other.  A reminder that we’re not alone in the world.

The late summer and early autumn greens and reds of the grasses are draining away, creating a new palette of rusts, tans, and browns.

It’s quiet here.

Until, suddenly, pheasants fly up – two, three – six! One lands in a tree.

I admire their vibrant colors — that scarlet head — even while acknowledging that pheasants aren’t native to this place. But there’s room here for them.

We have so much.

A Cooper’s hawk settles in near the black plastic mulched plant nursery, where plants are going to seed, which will be used for future restoration efforts. I love the plant nursery, with its sturdy rows of prairie plants. It’s a visual reminder of how we deliberately cultivate hope for change in the future.

The hawk stares me down. Even when we think we’ve got the way forward all figured out and organized, there’s always a wild card.

Look! Just around the corner,  a herd of bison spill over the grassy two track.

One blocks our way.

We keep a respectful distance. The bison stay together, tolerating our presence.

I admire their shaggy chocolate coats; their heft and muscle. Their coats gleam and shine in the late afternoon light.

They know where the juiciest grasses are, even now.

We watch them for a long time before we move away.

The slant of the November sun backlights the prairie like a false frost.

The milk-washed sky brightens; the smell of old grass and decaying chlorophyll  lifts in the autumn chill. I inhale. Exhale. The autumn prairie is changing, seemingly dying.

It’s not the end. Just a transition to the next season.

Fur and feathers…and a sea of grass. My fears are not gone, but they begin to dissolve in the late afternoon light. There is so much to be grateful for.

So much in this world that gives us reason to hope.

All photos by Cindy Crosby from Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL (The Nature Conservancy) 

There is a beautiful (copyrighted!) poem by Wendell Berry, The Peace of Wild Things, that I find a good antidote to difficult times. Find it at The Poetry Foundation: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171140.

In Praise of Grass

“I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars.” — Walt Whitman

Grasslands and prairies are some of the most imperiled natural systems in the world, says The Nature Conservancy. With this idea tucked into the back of my mind, I left the Midwestern tallgrass prairie this week for my first taste of New Mexico’s grasslands.

At first glance, the Southwest grasslands seem completely unrelated to the Midwest prairies I know so intimately.  Yin and yang. The plants, birds, and even the animals kept me reaching for my field guides to try and ID them.

Different birds. Different mammals. And what are these thousands of electrified false eyelashes?

Ahhh. Blue grama grass. Got it.

This grass? Native? or invasive?

Love this golden grass– but what is it?

I asked the rangers and staff at various nature centers and National Parks we hiked through about my “mystery grasses,” but they seemed surprised at the question. Birds? Here’s a field guide. Mammals? Let me give you a checklist for our site. Grasses? Ummmm. Even here — in these dedicated natural places — grasses are overshadowed by their more charismatic botanical companions.

Although many of the grass ID’s remain a puzzle (I’ve got some ID work to do when I return home), I discovered a few familiar tallgrass prairie friends. Canada wild rye bristles its way through the mountains just outside Santa Fe.

Little bluestem, a stalwart of the Illinois tallgrass prairies…

… brushes color into the mountains around Bandelier National Monument…

…and paints the Santa Fe National Forest grasslands with scarlet.

Hello, old friends. Good to see you here.

It’s almost 1,500 miles from Chicago to Santa Fe, New Mexico. Despite some similar grasses, the Southwest landscape could not be more different. Mountains, mesas, and plateaus instead of flat fields of corn and soybeans. Elk, instead of bison. Mule deer, rather than white-tails. The grasslands here, however, share the same status as our Midwestern prairies.  In need of protection.

In the northern part of New Mexico —at Valles Caldera National Preserve — the grasses fill an ancient crater of a volcano. Elk bend their heads to drink from this stream winding through the fields of short grasses, quenching their thirst.

In the southern part of the state, November paints the marsh grasses at Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge in dazzling rusts, tans, and golds. Together, the grasses weave a colorful carpet that underlies deep blue skies brimming with migratory birds. Hundreds of thousands of them — ducks, snow geese, sandhill cranes — use this refuge as a corridor each fall.

Perhaps learning to love something as seemingly simple as leaves of grass comes from seeing grasses in all their variety. Knowing some of their names. Spending time and work to name those new to us.  Feeling grateful when we find similarities. Exploring the differences.

Realizing that blades of grass — so often overlooked — stitch together a rich tapestry of colors, shapes, and smells.  A backdrop that creates context for the world we live in.

How, then, can we not pay attention?

All photos by Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): Wilderness trail, Bosque del Apache Wildlife Refuge, San Antonio, New Mexico; snow geese at BDAWR; blue grama grass (Bouteloua gracilis), Randall Davey Audubon Center, Santa Fe, NM; blue grama grass, Bandelier National Monument, Los Alamos, NM; unknown grass, RDAC;  unknown grass, RDAC; Canada wild rye (Elymus canadensis glaucifolius) BNM; little bluestem (Schizachyrium scoparium) , Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL; little bluestem, BNM; little bluestem, Santa Fe National Forest, Los Alamos, NM; grasslands, Valles Caldera National Preserve, Jemez Springs, NM; grasslands, VCNP; marsh grasses, BDAWR; sandhill crane, BDAWR; mule deer, BDAWR.

The quote, “I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars” by  Walt Whitman is from “Song of Myself” from Leaves of Grass.