Category Archives: water

‘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.

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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.

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

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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.

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

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Sunken balls of carrion flower catch the afternoon light.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Freckled and fanciful.

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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?

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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?

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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.

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The world brightens under the snow and seems to glow.

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

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

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

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

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Such a season of contrast, of opposites.

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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.

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

IMG_1554I’m thankful for whatever glimpses of light I can get. Whatever holds the light and reflects it. 

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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.

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

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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.

Water: Agent of Change

Leonardo da Vinci once said, “Water is the driving force of all nature.” When you think of prairie, water may not be the first image that leaps to your mind. Yet, water is a critical agent of change in the tallgrass.

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At Nachusa Grasslands one morning this spring, I hike into the sedge meadow where some of the first dragonflies will emerge from the stream. Rainfall has prompted new spring blooms and quick growth in the grasses. I walk carefully, looking. You never know what surprises are under your feet. This morning, it’s a bone hidden under wild strawberries.

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I pick my way through the crayfish holes that pock the sedge meadow until I reach the water. A little circle of sand marks the spot where water bubbles up to  the surface. Can you find it? Great angelica and marsh marigolds dot the edges.

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As I look for that morning’s elusive dragonflies, a flash of light catches my eye over toward the fen. A pond! Where a pond hadn’t been before. The beavers have been busy constructing a dam. A landscape I thought I knew well has become something different. Time to rethink my preconceptions; to learn to see something familiar in a new way.

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In the ponds under the utility lines that cross the prairie, there is a blur of dragonfly activity. As I skirt the edges of the water, small frogs splash into the pond just a step or two ahead of me. A Northern pintail quietly paddles to the other side. Northern pintails stop in Illinois for a short time in the spring on their migration north for the summer. I’ve never seen one before. The water must have been an invitation for it to rest for a bit.

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Agricultural drain tiles under the ground have made much of the Midwest artificially dry enough for farming. Today, in prairie restorations across Illinois, we are deliberately breaking up some of these old drain tiles and restoring the original hydrology of lands that are prairie and adjacent to prairie. Inviting water to return.

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As water brings changes to familiar landscapes this season, who knows what surprises are in store for us? I can’t wait to find out.

(All photos by Cindy Crosby at Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL. From top: Pond grasses; bone and wild strawberries (Fragaria virginiana; great angelica (Angelica atropurpurea) and marsh marigolds (Caltha palustris) in the sedge meadow; beaver dam in the fen; northern pintail; pond.)