A Tallgrass New Year

“Year’s end is neither an end nor a beginning but a going on, with all the wisdom that experience can instill in us.” —Hal Borland

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And so 2021 comes to a close.

Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.

On the prairie, the tallgrass colors transition to their winter hues.

Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.

The prairie is stripped to bare essence.

Common milkweed (Asclepias syriaca)and Canada goldenrod (Solidago canadensis), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.

The deep roots of prairie plants continue to hold the tallgrass through the winter.

Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.

As Paul Gruchow wrote, “The work that matters does not always show.”

Big bluestem (Andropogon gerardii), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.

2021 has been another tough year. We’ve attempted to make each day meaningful in the midst of uncertainty and loss.

Ball gall, Lyman Woods prairie kame, Downers Grove, IL.

We’ve pulled from our reserve strength until we wonder if there is anything left. Trying to keep a sense of normalcy. Trying to get our work done. Trying. Trying. It all seems like too much sometimes, doesn’t it? In When Things Fall Apart, Pema Chӧdrӧn writes, “To be fully alive, fully human, is to be continually thrown out of the nest.” The past two years have made us realize how comfortable that “nest” used to be.

Prairie dock (Silphium terabinthinaceum), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.

But we keep moving forward, little by little. Reaching for that extra bit of patience. Putting away the media for a time out. Setting aside a morning to go for a walk and just be.

Illinois bundleflower (Desmanthus illinoensis), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.

Listening to our lives. Listening to that interior landscape.

Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.

We’ve learned we are fragile.

Rattlesnake master (Eryngium yuccifolium), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downers Grove, IL.

We’ve also learned we are more resilient than we ever knew we could be.

Thimbleweed (Anemone cylindrica), Lyman Woods, Downers Grove, IL.

In 2019, we had no idea of the challenges ahead.

Lyman Woods, Downers Grove, IL.

And yet, here we are. Meeting those challenges. Exhausted? You bet! It’s not always pretty, but we keep getting up in the morning and getting things done.

Compass plant (Silphium laciniatum), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downers Grove, IL.

We’re making the best of where we find ourselves.

Schulenberg Prairie Savanna, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.

Trying to keep our sense of humor, even when there doesn’t seem to be much to laugh about.

Random tree creation found in Lyman Woods, Downers Grove, IL.

With less margin, we are learning to untangle what’s most important from what we can let go of.

Dogbane or Indian hemp (Apocynum cannabinum), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.

We are making life work, even if it’s messy. Knowing that whatever is ahead in 2022, we’ll give it our best shot.

Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downers Grove, IL.

We’ll hike—the prairies, the woodlands, or wherever we find ourselves—aware of the beauty of the natural world. We’ve never appreciated the outdoors spaces like we have these past months.

Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.

We’ll give thanks for joys, big and small. Grateful in new ways for what we have.

Compass plant (Silphium laciniatum), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downers Grove, IL.

And we’ll encourage each other. Because we need community, now more than ever before.

Compass plant (Silphium laciniatum), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downers Grove, IL.

Keep on hiking. The road has been long, but we’ve got this. Together.

New England asters (Symphyotrichum novae-angliae) in late December, Lyman Woods, Downers Grove, IL.

Happy New Year!

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Hal Borland (1900-1978) was a naturalist and journalist born in Nebraska. He is the author of many books of fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and plays, and wrote a tremendous number of nature observation editorials for The New York Times. He was also a recipient of the John Burroughs Medal for Distinguished Nature Writing. I’m so grateful for his “through the year” books— I love books that follow the months and seasons! Thanks to blog reader Helen Boertje, who generously shared her copies of Borland’s books with me. I’m so grateful.

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Making a New Year’s resolution? Don’t forget Bell Bowl Prairie! Commit to doing one action on the list you’ll find at Save Bell Bowl Prairie, and help us save this rare prairie remnant from the bulldozers.

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Happy New Year, and thank you for reading in 2021. What a year it’s been! I’m grateful to have this community of readers who love the natural world. I’m looking forward to virtually hiking the prairies with you in 2022. Thank you for your encouragement, and for your love of the natural world.

Life in the Prairie Cold

“There was nothing so real on the prairie as winter, nothing so memorable.” — Martha Ostenso

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Seven degrees.

It’s that time of year on the prairie. You know. That time.  Frigid temps. Icy trails that make it an effort to get from point “A” to point “Z.”  Add a brutal wind, and it lessens any desire on my part to emerge from piles of blankets on the couch, or to leave my stack of library books and mug of hot chocolate.

There are reasons to go outside, however. Especially for those of us who love snow.

Or wonders in the sky. The lunar eclipse, or what was popularly called the “super wolf blood moon eclipse,” lured me out to my back porch after dark this week. In the western suburbs of Chicago, we had a savagely cold night for viewing, but oh! What a view! The moon seemed to chase Orion across the night sky as it progressed through its different darkened stages. Crisp stars sparkled as a backdrop for the eclipse. I returned inside long past my bedtime.

It was a good reminder: When you forgo being outside in January, the life of the natural world goes on as usual. It doesn’t miss your presence. But you are the poorer for missing the moment.

One particular afternoon this week, despite the breathtaking cold, Jeff and I hike the Springbrook Prairie Forest Preserve,  an 1,800 acre-plus natural area that is, one of three regionally significant grassland bird communities in the state.

Springbrook Prairie is home to short-eared owls, and is a confirmed site for nesting turkey vultures. Bobolinks and dickcissels can be heard singing in the spring. Springbrook also hosts the state-endangered northern harrier.

Today, however, nothing much moves in the wind except the brittle grasses and spent wildflowers.

Until…

A hawk flies up out of the tallgrass in the distance. Could it be the northern harrier? We hike faster, crossing our fingers.

It settles into a tree. We move in for a closer look.

Red-tailed hawk.  Common? Sure. Still magnificent. Although not the northern harrier we’d hoped for.

The rest of the bird life of Springbrook is noticeably silent. The Arctic winds that cause us to wrap our scarves more tightly around our heads are most likely the reason. But there is life here besides the red-tailed hawk. A ball gall next to the trail reminds us. Somewhere inside the gall, a tiny insect larvae is waiting to emerge. Pretty smart, I think, to spend days like today encapsulated in a warm sphere.

The sharp wind seems to be in my face, no matter which way I hike.

It sculpts blue shadows in the snow, carves ripples into the white stuff; scoops out gullies.

Tiny prints necklace the prairie, made by a tiny mammal. Brave—or hungry—to be out in this bitter cold. I remind myself I need to re-learn mammal tracks.

There are cars in the parking lot of the preserve, but we don’t see a soul on the trails. Springbrook Prairie is so vast! Few prairies in Illinois today offer these sweeping vistas in every direction. As we hike up a rise, we see clouds piled up in the east, more than 20 miles away over Lake Michigan. Part of the lake effect.  

Looking north, the preserve’s wetlands are partially frozen and and quiet.

In the west, the prairie could be a landscape painting. Or an old sepia photograph, perhaps.

A living painting or photograph, that is. The ball gall, the hawk, and the mammal tracks remind me of this. Under the ground, the deep roots of prairie plants wait. In only months, they’ll push green spears through the soil and completely change this icy world of the prairie I see today.

I realize I can no longer feel my fingers. Wind-burnt, frozen, we begin the hike back to the car and turn up the heater as high as it will go. Grateful for the warmth. But still…glad to have been a part of the life of the prairie for a moment. Content to have been present to our “landscape of home.”

And… ready for that hot chocolate and those library books.

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Novelist and poet Martha Ostenso (1900-1963) immigrated with  her family from Norway to Manitoba, then Minnesota. After living in New York City, she moved to Los Angeles and became a screenwriter. She died of complications from alcoholism.  The Wild Geese (1924) is her best-known novel, and, as her publisher writes, “Set on the windswept prairies, it is…a poignant evocation of loneliness… .”

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All photos copyright Cindy Crosby, and taken this week at Springbrook Prairie Forest Preserve, Naperville, IL, except where noted (top to bottom): snowfall at the intersection of the collections and wetland prairie plantings on the West Side of The Morton Arboretum in Lisle, IL; super wolf blood moon eclipse over author’s backyard prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; gray-headed coneflowers (Ratibida pinnata), trail through the tallgrass; red-tailed hawk (Buteo jamaicensis); red-tailed hawk (Buteo jamaicensis); ball gall on goldenrod (probably either Solidago canadensis or Solidago altisissima) made by the goldenrod gall fly (Eurosta solidaginis); bur oak (Quercus macrocarpa) in the tallgrass;  blue shadows and spent wildflowers and prairie grasses; possibly mouse or  vole tracks in the snow; prairie wetlands; looking west on the prairie.

Thanks to Jennifer Crosby Buono, who explained the lake effect snow cloud formations to me that we saw to the east, and provided me with the link in the post.

For more information on galls, check out this interesting article from Entomology Today.

 

Prairie Shadows; Prairie Promise

“Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind.” — Nathaniel Hawthorne

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It’s “shadow season” on the prairie, a time where everything seems a ghost of its former, vibrant self. I find it one of the most difficult times of the year in the tallgrass. Everything that remains at the turn of March to April is seemingly brittle. Ruined. Grasses are flattened. The prairie seems worn out.

Waiting for fire.

Or maybe I’m just projecting my own winter-weary self on the prairie. The prairie—as always—has its gifts to give.  These gifts just aren’t that in-your-face, “wow-look-at-that-color!” good looks. No wildflowers. No juicy grasses. Few returning grassland birds.

There is a whole lot of animal scat and mud. Trash, small mammal bones, and flotsam and jetsam left behind after the snow melt.

It’s discouraging. But sometimes, to see hope for the future—or even, just to give yourself a mental boost to get to next week—you have to look a little closer. Dig a little deeper. Take more time. Sit with things.

When you do, you find that with the prairie’s maturity comes a different sort of beauty. It’s nuanced.

Some plants are crumpled and twisted. This one caught a plant virus. See that thick stem? It’s frayed a little around the stress points, but not broken…

Prairie dock leaves are so wrinkled you have to look twice to recognize them.

Much different from their beginnings just a year or so ago.

All the knowledge of the past prairie season is encapsulated here in March. A shadow of what once was. You can’t help but be reminded of our own fleeting presence here.

 

There’s promise. That promise will be more evident after the prescribed fires, when the prairie is once again lush and green and beginning to bloom.

Despite the stands of dead foliage, what is important to the prairie is still here. Even if unseen. It’s right where you’re standing. Down deep where the fire can’t touch it, in the roots that plunge up to 15 feet or more into the earth.

Martin Luther King, Jr., once said: “Everything we see is but a shadow cast by that which we don’t see.” He wasn’t talking about the prairie, but his words are applicable. Those unseen deep roots that grip the soil so tenaciously–and will remain untouched by fire—are the prairie’s future. They hold the history of the prairie–the soil—in their grasp. While the life of the prairie above the ground is finished—that fleeting shadow of wildflowers, grasses, and color—there is more to consider than what is visible to our eyes.

Some prairies have already been burned as March comes to a close. But, without the right weather conditions, many of our local prairies are still in a state of anticipation. Waiting for the flames. For the prairie to flourish—for color and life and motion to be kindled again in the tallgrass—calls for something harsh, extravagant, and radical to happen.

There’s not much time left. March is almost over.

Bring on the fire.

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The opening quote is by dark romantic writer Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864), a neighbor of Ralph Waldo Emerson and a contemporary of Abraham Lincoln, Bronson Alcott, Henry David Thoreau, Herman Melville (who dedicated his novel Moby Dick to Hawthorne), and Louis Agassiz. To support his writing, and later his family, Hawthorne did everything from working as a surveyor to shoveling manure. He’s known for his short stories and his novels, such as The House of the Seven Gables. Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter was one of the first mass produced books in America, and required reading when I was in high school. Writer D.H. Lawrence said of The Scarlet Letter, “There could be no more perfect work of the imagination.” Hawthorne is buried at Authors Ridge in Concord, Massachusetts.

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All photos copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): Schulenberg Prairie in March before the burn, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL;  unknown mammal bones, Prairiewoods Prairie, Hiawatha, IA; spoon in the tallgrass, Prairiewoods Prairie, Hiawatha, IA; prairie dock leaf (Silphium terebinthinaceum), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Illinois DNR, The Nature Conservancy IL, Downer’s Grove Park District, Downer’s Grove, IL; pale purple coneflower (Echinacea pallida) (probably infected with a virus), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Illinois DNR, The Nature Conservancy IL; Downer’s Grove Park District, Downer’s Grove, IL; wrinkled prairie dock leaf (Silphium terebinthinaceum), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Illinois DNR, The Nature Conservancy IL, Downer’s Grove Park District, Downer’s Grove, IL; green prairie dock leaf (Silphium terebinthinaceum), Aldo Leopold Prairie Visitor Center prairie planting, Baraboo, WI; feather on prairie plant (both unknown species), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; pasque flowers (Pulsatilla patens) Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; bur oak (Quercus macrocarpa) and Indian grass (Sorghastrum nutans)  at Prairiewoods, Hiawatha, IA; ball gall, Prairiewoods, Hiawatha, IA; unburned savanna and burned prairie at Prairiewoods, Hiawatha, IA; prescribed burn sign, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prescribed burn in the distance, viewed from The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.

Once in a Blue (Prairie) Moon

“In winter, the stars seem to have rekindled their fires, the moon achieves a fuller triumph, and the heavens wear a look of a more exalted simplicity.”–John Burroughs

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Lately, I’ve been waking up much earlier than I’d like. For no good reason. Usually, when this happens, I’m frustrated.

But last Wednesday, I was glad I woke early.

The first customers were lined up for their java fix at the coffee shop when I arrived around 7 a.m. “Did you see the lunar eclipse?” I asked the barista. “Wasn’t it beautiful?” He looked puzzled. “Eclipse?” He had no idea what I was talking about.

It’s difficult to untangle ourselves from the web of responsibilities we have in order to pay attention to the natural world.

There’s a lot going on in the night sky that we miss because we’re asleep.; for that matter, there is plenty we don’t see in the bright light of day because we’re not intentional about it. Sometimes, we see interesting things because we show up at the same place again and again.

Or we were lucky: we were at the right place, at the right time. Woke up early. Which is how I experienced the “Super Blue Blood Moon Eclipse.”

The moon—such a mysterious part of the night sky! It pulls tides. Casts shadows.  The Ojibwe gave each full moon a specific name appropriate to the season. Wolf Moon. Snow Moon. Hunter’s Moon. Cold Moon.

Made of green cheese, right? Or hum along: Shine on Harvest Moon. Try to find the “man in the moon.” Or shiver as you hear, “Cold hearted orb, that rules the night, removes the colours from our sight… .”

So…what’s all the hype behind last week’s event? After the fact, I wanted to deconstruct “Super Blue Blood Moon Eclipse” to understand what I saw. I discovered super refers to the the moon’s proximity to earth. Its size on the horizon this past week was gasp-worthy. There’s a term for this phenomenon—perigee—which simply means it’s the point in time when the moon is the closest to the Earth in its orbit.

Blue moons are just a name for full moons that occur twice in a calendar month.  This happens more than you might think. We’ll have two blue moons this year; the one last Wednesday, January 31, and another March 31. It’s common to have one blue moon in a year; two blue moons in a year occur about every 19 years. I found these facts and more on www.earthsky.org; there’s a list with all the forthcoming blue moons.

Back to “Super Blue Blood Moon Eclipse.”

Blood refers to the coloration of the moon as the moon passes through the Earth’s shadow.  For a few hours last week, the moon appeared reddish orange, rather than pale blue or gold.  And eclipse refers to the darkening of a celestial object by another in the eyes of the viewer; in this case, the moon was darkened by the Earth’s shadow, cast by the sun.

One more quick bit: The term for three celestial objects that line up for an eclipse is syzygy.   Great word.

For a blue moon and a lunar eclipse to occur together as they did is a rarity.  The website  www.space.com tells us that before last week’s eclipse, the last occurrence happened 150 years ago.

Did you miss it? Catch another “blood moon eclipse” January 21, 2019.  Not a super blue one, but still. Check it out here.

The prairie sky is always full of wonders, some dramatic like an eclipse, others less so. But of course, we have to make time to look.

“…Beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there,” writes Annie Dillard.

Why not mark some of these eclipse dates on your calendar right now so you don’t miss them? Better yet, whatever time of day or night you are reading this, go outside and take a look at the sky. See what’s happening. Marvel.

Show up. Be there.

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The opening quote is from John Burroughs (1837-1921),  a “literary naturalist” who was born in New York state. He briefly taught school in Buffalo Grove, IL, and later worked in finance in New  York. Burroughs was a contemporary of Theodore Roosevelt, Thomas Edison, and John Muir. The  “John Burroughs Medal” is awarded to an outstanding book of natural history each year by an Association bearing his name. Take a look at some of the winners here.

The Moody Blues, whose poem/lyrics from “Morning Glory–Late Lament” appear in this post, will be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in April, 2018. Annie Dillard’s quote about “being there” is from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. It won the 1975 Pulitzer Prize for general nonfiction.

All photos copyright Cindy Crosby: (top to bottom): super blue blood moon eclipse, Forest Preserve District of DuPage County headquarters prairie, Naperville, IL; orb weaver spider (Neoscona spp.), Asheville, North Carolina; big bluestem (Andropogon gerardii) and  the moon, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; super blue blood moon eclipse, author’s backyard prairie patch, Glen Ellyn, IL; road to Thelma Carpenter Prairie, Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; moon in daylight, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; super blue blood moon eclipse, Forest Preserve District of DuPage county headquarters prairie, Naperville, IL; full moon, author’s backyard prairie patch, Glen Ellyn, IL; ball gall, Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove Park District, Illinois DNR, The Nature Conservancy, Downer’s Grove, IL; rattlesnake master (Eryngium yuccifolium) leaf, Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove Park District, Illinois DNR, The Nature Conservancy, Downer’s Grove, IL; prairie skies, Schulenberg prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; grasses and clouds, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL. 

Note: If you want to keep up on eclipses and other fun sky happenings, I like these websites. Much of the eclipse information today came from them: Sky and Telescope (skyandtelescope.com), EarthSky (earthsky.org), and Space (space.com). Check them out!

A Prairie Pause

“Every day I see or hear something that more or less kills me with delight…it is what I was born for—to look, to listen… .” — Mary Oliver

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First-timers to the prairie in December may be underwhelmed. The grass colors are draining away; plants are nibbled and ragged. Shopworn.

But, as the opening lines of the Mary Oliver poem above suggest, for those who hike and look during these gray days, December has its rewards.  Kaleidoscope skies delight us in the afternoons, straight out of a Van Gogh painting.

Slow-burning sunsets, trailing scarves of fire, deliver quiet satisfaction. They end  some of the shortest days of the year.

As a prairie steward at two different sites, I find December is a good time to reflect on the coming season. At home, I scribble in my notebook. RCG? means, “What will I do about the reed canary grass we can’t get rid of that’s infesting a high-quality area of the prairie?”  That caricature of a flower next to it is purple loosestrife, which consistently mounts a stealth operation into the west end of the stream from a subdivision across the road. A reminder that constant vigilance is the price of an invasive-free waterway.

All of these invasive plants will be put on an “alert” list and dealt with in 2018. But for now, they are just words on paper. Something to think about in the abstract.

And then, there is my prairie “wish list.” Oh, such possibilities! Maybe, adding a little cardinal flower in the wetter areas.

Along the streambank, where the native Illinois bundleflower has become an aggressive bully,…

…I can proactively place great blue lobelia. These “blues” may take root, and chase some of my problem plants away. Or, so I hope.

I digitally page through online native plant nursery catalog offerings, make notes, calculate costs. Wonder what the possibilities might be. I pore over my prairie plant inventory list, made this season. What plants have gone missing this year? Who is new that showed up to the party, uninvited? Which species is getting a little aggressive, a little too territory-hungry? A little less monarda—a little more pasqueflower? 

In my faith tradition, December is a time of waiting. A time of anticipation. Preparation. On the prairie, as a steward, I find the month of December to be much the same.

A rest from herbicide management, writing workday summaries, or thinking about dragonfly populations in the creeks and ponds of the prairie wetlands.

I like this rhythm of the seasons. I need a pause, one in which I’m not pulling weeds; collecting seeds. Sure, there are tasks that can be done—I’m still trying to wrap up some spreadsheets, finish some year-end reports—but let’s be clear. Nothing is screaming “spray me now!” No seeds I need are being eaten by birds, or explosively shooting off into the grasses before they can be collected.

There is time to catch up on unread piles of articles; to thumb leisurely through a book or two on prairies that I’ve been meaning to read. Find journal essays online about dragonflies. Set workshop dates to train new monitors. Compare notes with other stewards. There is time—precious time—to untangle my thoughts.

With gray skies wrapped around our days like a smothering cloak, the impulse to be indoors, instead of out, is strong.  No warm breezes beckon. I don’t wonder if I’m missing a new dragonfly species when I curl up on the couch with a mug of hot tea.  I don’t worry that the sweet clover has, seemingly overnight, overrun a new portion of the tallgrass. I can take a break, guilt-free. December is a simpler month; a welcome interlude in the busyness of the life of the prairie.

I don’t know what the new year holds. I prepare as best I can. Scribble lists. Reflect. Dream a little. Prepare. Anticipate. Scribble some more.

When I’m out hiking the trails, I imagine the prairies as they will be, vibrant and blooming in the spring. I look at them now, clear-eyed. Yes, they are brittle, a little shaggy. Ragged under their sprinkle of new snow. Different. But no less beautiful. Then I retreat back home to make a few more lists.

And I savor the pause.

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The opening verse is from Mary Oliver’s poem, “Mindful.” If you haven’t read the whole poem, and you love volunteering or caring for the tallgrass prairie in some way throughout the year, this poem is for you. Read it here.  It’s beautiful. Oliver (1935-) won the Pulitzer Prize in 1984. Her newest poetry collection is Devotions.

All photos copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): prairie dock leaf (Silphium terebinthinaceum), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; cloudy December skies over the Schulenberg Prairie at The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; Gensburg-Markham Prairie Preserve, The Nature Conservancy, Illinois Department of Natural Resources, and Northeastern Illinois University, Markham, IL:  vigilant bullfrogs (Lithobates catesbeianus)  Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; ice in Willoway Brook, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; cardinal flower (Lobelia cardinalis), Nomia Meadows Farm prairie and wetlands, Franklin Grove, IL; Illinois bundleflower (Desmanthus illinoensis), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; great blue lobelia (Lobelia siphilitica), author’s backyard pond, Glen Ellyn, Il; pasque flower (Pulsatilla patens), Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; path through Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, The Nature Conservancy, Downer’s Grove Park District, Downer’s Grove, IL; eastern amberwing dragonfly (Perithemis tenera), female, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; ball gall at Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, The Nature Conservancy, Downer’s Grove Park District, Downer’s Grove, IL; white wild indigo (Baptisia alba macrophylla), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; false sunflower (Heliopsis helianthoides), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; sunset at Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, The Nature Conservancy, Downer’s Grove Park District, Downer’s 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).