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!

*****

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.

A Prairie Wildflower Solstice

“How we spend our days, is, of course, how we spend our lives.” — Annie Dillard

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Tonight at 11:24 p.m.—not to put too fine a point on it—is the summer solstice. Simply put, it is the official date summer begins in Illinois. The solstice also marks the longest day and shortest night of the year for the northern hemisphere.

On the tallgrass prairie, the summer solstice means it’s time for wildflowers. Lots of them.

White wild indigo reaches for the clouds.

The indigo is alive with pollinators, going about their buzzy business.

Seemingly overnight, pale purple coneflowers open across the tallgrass. People who don’t think about prairie much at other times of the year stop and stare. Linger. How could you not? Coneflowers are the great ambassadors of the tallgrass; the welcome mat that compels us to step in and take a closer look.

And then, there are the oddly-named summer wildflowers you forget about until you come across them in bloom again. Scurfy pea. The name alone provokes smiles. It earns a 10—the highest possible score—in the Flora of the Chicago Region, but for most photographers and hikers in the tallgrass, its primary value is as a pretty backdrop for the coneflowers.

The unpredictable juxtapositions of plants are a never-ending source of enjoyment on the prairie in June.  Like this daisy fleabane with lime-green carrion flower.

As June progresses, the black-eyed Susans, white and purple prairie clover, lead plant, and flowering spurge open alongside the indigo and coneflowers. Such an outpouring of color! The prairie holds nothing back. What in the world will the tallgrass do for an encore?

And then you glance up.

Although the wildflowers take center stage in June—as do the skies—grasses bide their time. Soon they’ll be the stars of the tallgrass prairie. The grasses and sedges at this fen are already lush and hypnotic in the wind.

 

They are also alive with insects. Dragonflies pull themselves from the streams and ponds, clamber up grass blades; pump flight into their newly unfurled wings.  Like this Halloween pennant, cooling off on a hot day.

Or this little damselfly, neon blue in the grasses. The name “bluet” is perfect, isn’t it?

This day calls for reflection. How have I spent my time this week; this month; this year? Have I paid attention? Where have I focused my energy? What will I change about how I’m spending my days, if anything, in the upcoming weeks?

The prairie is just beginning to work its magic.

Will you be there to see what happens next?

***

The opening quote from Annie Dillard (1945-) is from her Pulitzer Prize-winning book,  Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (1974). I read it every year; there’s always something new to think about.

All photos and the video copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): white wild indigo (Baptisia alba macrophylla), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; bumblebee (unknown species) on white wild indigo (Baptisia alba macrophylla), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; pale purple coneflower (Echinacea pallida) duo, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; scurfy pea (Psoralidium tenuiflorum) with a single pale purple coneflower (Echinacea pallida) and prairie dock leaf (Silphium terebinthinaceum), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; carrion flower  (probably Smilax herbacea) and daisy fleabane (probably Erigeron philadelphicus), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL;  mixed Schulenberg Prairie wildflowers at The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; rainbow and storm clouds over the author’s backyard prairie patch, Glen Ellyn, IL; grasses and sedges at Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; Halloween pennant (Celithemis eponina), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; familiar bluet (Enallagma civile) damselfly, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; pale purple coneflowers (Echinacea pallida) under storm clouds, Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; gravel two-track with great angelica (Angelica atropurpurea) at Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL.

The Grassy Sea

“This dewdrop world  is a dewdrop world. And yet. And yet.” –Kobayashi Issa

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September draws to a close. The prairie dreams;  wakens later each morning.

You gaze at the grass, all waves, and wind, and water. A grassy sea.

Foam is kicked up by the churning of the grasses.

The clouds become the prows of ships, tossing on the tumultuous air…

And you realize fences, no matter how strong, can never contain the tallgrass, washing up against the wires.

Fungi cling like barnacles to dropped limbs on the edges of the grasses…

You reflect on how, after almost being obliterated, the tallgrass prairie has hung on to life; survival by  a thread.

It was a close call. Even today, prairie clings to old, unsprayed railroad right-of-ways in the center of industrial areas and landscaped lawns.

Little patches of prairie, scrabbling for life, show up in unlikely places.

Although the prairie’s former grandeur is only dimly remembered…

…and in many places, the tallgrass prairie seems utterly obliterated from memory, gone with the wind…

…the  prairie has put down roots again. You can see it coming into focus in vibrant, growing restorations, with dazzling autumn wildflowers…

…and diverse tiny creatures.

 

There is hope, glimpsed just over the horizon…

The dawn of a future filled with promise for a grassy sea.

*******

Kobayashi Issa (1763-1828), whose haiku opens this essay, was a Japanese poet regarded as one of the top four haiku masters of all time. He wrote this particular haiku after suffering tremendous personal loss.

All photos copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): mist rising over prairie planting, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; autumn at Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; common milkweed (Asclepias syriaca), Conrad Savanna, The Nature Conservancy and Indiana DNR, Newton County, IN; Nachusa Grasslands in September, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; purple love grass (Eragrostis spectabilis) and sweet everlasting (Pseudognaphalium obtusifolium), Kankakee Sands, The Nature Conservancy, Newton County, IN; unknown fungi, Brown County State Park, Nashville, IN; marbled orb weaver in the grasses (Araneus marmoreus), Brown County State Park, Nashville, IN; big bluestem  (Andropogon gerardii) and other prairie plants along a railroad right-of-way, Kirkland, IN; prairie plants along an overpass, Bloomington, IN; thistles and grasses, Kankakee Sands, The Nature Conservancy, Newton County, IN; wind farm, Benton County, IN; great blue lobelia (Lobelia siphilitica), Kankakee Sands, The Nature Conservancy, Newton County, IN;  Eastern-tailed blue (Cupido comyntas), Brown County State Park, Nashville,  Indiana; Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL. 

Prairie Passages

“The opposite of love is not hatred, but indifference.”–Paul Gruchow

The sun lobs her light into the early morning hours. Mist rises from the warmth of the tallgrass into the cool air. It’s quiet, except for the wake-up songs of a few migrating warblers, resting in the nearby trees.

Dawn is later now. The autumn equinox is only days away. You feel the transition in the slant of the light, the scent of the breezes. The just-past-full harvest moon this week seemed to speak of the cold and dark to come.

The prairie  year rushes toward its inevitable conclusion.

 

Drive by the prairie in late September. The impression is a sea of grasses. It’s easy to be indifferent to the seeming sameness, if you don’t take time to pay attention and look carefully.  

So. Get out of your car. Sit. Look up at the sunflowers. See the migrating monarch nectaring?

Celebrate the grasshopper, the bee, the cricket. Each one with plant associations; each irreplaceable in the prairie community.

Applaud the profusion of asters, dabbing the prairie with purple.

Watch as the prairie, under the lessening light, gently puts on the brakes. Seeds ripen and fall; some gathered by volunteers, others fuel for grassland birds or tiny mice and voles.  Bison thicken up their hairy chocolate-colored coats.

Admire the boneset, one of the last flushes of extravagant flowers before the frosts touch the grasses. Boneset was once valued for its medicinal qualities; its ability to alleviate pain. Discomfort is part of change, but there is always solace in unexpected places. The clouds of pale boneset are one of the comforts of a prairie in transition.

Inhale, smell the buttery prairie dropseed, the lemony scent of gray-headed coneflower seeds, the dusty mint of bee balm.

Are transitions difficult for you, as they are for me? Are you watching and listening as the tallgrass moves from the warm season; melds into the coming cold?

Let the prairie remind  you that there is always something amazing waiting, just around the corner. Love the transitions. Embrace what is bittersweet. Don’t be indifferent. Or afraid of change. Keep moving forward with anticipation to the new season ahead.

You’ll see.

******

The opening quote is from Grass Roots: The Universe of Home, by Minnesota writer Paul Gruchow (1947-2004). Gruchow grappled with depression throughout his writing life; he found solace in the solitude of wild places, especially prairie.

All photos copyright Cindy Crosby: (top to bottom): Prairie planting, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; just past full harvest moon seen from author’s prairie patch, Glen Ellyn, IL;  Clear Creek, Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL;  little bluestem (Schizachyrium scoparium), Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; monarch butterfly (Danaus plexippus) on Maximilian sunflowers (Helianthus maximiliani), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; red-legged grasshopper (Melanoplus femurrubrum) on Canada wild rye (Elymus canadensis),  Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; silky asters (Symphyotrichum sericeum), Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; bison (Bison bison), Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; tall boneset (Eupatorium altissimum), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; mist over prairie planting, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; September on the Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL. 

Leaving Home

“Migration is a blind leap of faith… .” Scott Weidensaul

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September.

In a prairie pond, a turtle and a few ducks snooze in the late afternoon sun.

A baby snapper ventures slowly out to explore the rocks.

The last great blue lobelia flowers open and bloom amid the goldenrod. September’s colors.

Deep in the tallgrass, a grasshopper takes a hopping hiatus from the heat.

A cool breeze stirs. The tree leaves begin to rustle, then rattle. A sound like waves rushing to shore sweeps through the prairie. It ripples in the wind. Tall coreopsis sways.

The prairie whispers, Go.

The black saddlebags dragonfly feels restless, deep down in its DNA. Orienting south, it joins the green darners, variegated meadowhawks, and wandering gliders to swarm the skies. Go. Go.

The meadowhawk dragonfly hears, but doesn’t respond. It will be left behind. Only a few species of dragonflies answer the migration call. Why?

We don’t know. It’s a mystery.

A flash of orange and black, and a monarch nectars at the zinnias that grow by my prairie patch.  Mexico seems a long way off for something so small. But this butterfly was born with a passport that includes a complimentary GPS system. This particular monarch will go. Just one more sip.

A viceroy butterfly delicately tastes nectar from goldenrod. No epic trip for this look-alike. Although its days are numbered, the butterfly bursts with energy, zipping from prairie wildflower to wildflower. Go? I wish!

A turkey vulture lazily soars through the air, headed south.  These Chicago buzzards won’t drift far. Once they hit the sweet tea and BBQ states, they’ll stay put until spring.

Go? The red-tailed hawk catches the whispered imperative. She stops her wheeling over the prairie for a moment and rests on top of a flagpole, disgruntled. Go? NO! So many birds heading for warmer climes! She ignores the command. She’ll winter here,  in the frigid Chicago temperatures. Wimps, she says, disdaining the pretty warblers, flocking south.

Meanwhile, the last blast of hummingbirds dive-bomb my feeders, slugging it out for fuel. Think of the lines at the pump during the oil embargo crisis of the 1970s –that’s the scene. Destination? Central America. You can feel their desperation as they drink deeply, then buzz away.

Saying goodbye is always the most difficult for those left behind. Seeing those we know and care about leave home is bittersweet, fraught with loss.

But, as the prairie brings one chapter to a close–with all of its colorful and lively characters…

…another chapter is about to begin.

Meanwhile, we watch them go. Bon voyage. Safe travels.

 

*****

The opening quote is by Scott Weidensaul, the author of Living on the Wind: Across the Hemisphere with Migratory Birds, which was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize.

All photos copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom):  painted turtle (Chrysemys picta) and mallard ducks ((Anas platyrhynchos) on the  prairie pond, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; baby snapping turtle (Chelydra serpentina), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; great blue lobelia (Lobelia siphilitica) and Canada goldenrod (Solidago canadensis), prairie planting, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; grasshopper (species unknown), Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; tall coreopsis (Coreopsis tripteris), Glen Ellyn Public Library prairie planting, Glen Ellyn, IL; black saddlebags dragonfly (Tramea lacerata), James “Pate” Philip State Park, Illinois DNR, Bartlett, IL;  meadowhawk (Sympetrum spp.) Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; monarch (Danaus plexippus), author’s backyard garden and prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; viceroy butterfly (Limenitis archippus) on Canada goldenrod (Solidago canadensis), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; turkey vulture (Cathartes aura), Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; red-tailed hawk (Buteo jamaicensis), The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; ruby-throated hummingbird (Archilochus colubris) , author’s backyard prairie patch, Glen Ellyn, IL; sneezeweed (Helenium autumnale), Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; sunset at Russell Kirt Prairie, College of DuPage, Glen Ellyn, IL. 

Prairie Signs and Wonders

“By all these lovely tokens, September days are here, with summer’s best of weather, and autumn’s best of cheer.”–Helen Maria Hunt Jackson

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August slows, and puts on her turn signal. Autumn lies just ahead. The signs are all around us.

In my backyard prairie patch, the goldfinches work the cup plant seedheads–then sip a drink from yesterday’s rainwater, pooled in the leaves.

Nearby, a lone monarch appears on the zinnias, delicately sourcing fuel for its migration flight to Mexico. Hasta la vista. What a tough year it’s been for you, monarchs.

 

Hikes on the prairies after work end sooner. Shorter days. Earlier sunsets.

The tallgrass is peppered with dark chocolate coneflower seedheads; limned with early goldenrod.

In the first light of morning, deep in the dew, the white-faced meadowhawks appear. Harbingers of fall. Their kin, the green darners and wandering gliders, black saddlebags and variegated meadowhawks, have already taken wing and left the Midwest. What a wonder, that they can disappear into the winds to fly thousands of miles! The non-migratory dragonflies  are tied to this place, however, and wait helplessly for the cold.

There is a more spare look to the landscape. It moves from cheerful to slightly melancholy. Lonelier.

The jewelweed opens along the prairie’s creeks. Hummingbirds work the flowers for nectar, mindful that they’ll soon need energy to make the long trip south. Come on! You can almost hear the monarchs and dragonflies whisper to the hummers. It’s getting late. Go!

 

Summer is ending. We see dimly ahead. Wonder what’s around the corner.

Something new.

Something different.

And always, adventures to anticipate.

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The opening quote is from Helen Maria Hunt Jackson (1830-1885), who was a novelist and tireless advocate for Native Americans. She was also a classmate of Emily Dickinson. She suffered many difficult losses during her life–parents, siblings, children, her husband. At the time of her death from cancer, Jackson was still advocating for Native American rights from her sickbed. Although some have criticized her prose as “middlebrow,” she used her words to change the world she lived in for the better.

All photos copyright Cindy Crosby: (top to bottom):  cup plant (Silphium prefoliatum) with American goldfinches (Spinus tristis), author’s backyard prairie patch, Glen Ellyn, IL; monarch (Danaus plexippus), author’s backyard garden zinnias (Zinnia spp., certified Monarch Way Station), Glen Ellyn, IL; Russell Kirt Prairie, College of DuPage, Glen Ellyn, IL; early goldenrod (Solidago juncea) and pale purple conehead (Echinacea pallida) seeds, Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; white-faced meadowhawk, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL;  Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; jewelweed (Impatiens capensis), Clear Creek Unit, Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL;  Indian grass (Sorghastrum nutans) with tall coreopsis (Coreopsis tripteris) and big bluestem (Andropogon gerardii) also visible in the fog, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; Schulenberg Prairie,  The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.

To Know a Prairie

“A walk is only a step away from a story, and every path tells.” –Robert Macfarlane

How do you begin to know a prairie?

You walk it alone, in the late summer sun.

 

Wait for the mist to rise, after the rain.

 

You sit quietly, doing nothing at all. Suddenly, the  focus becomes what is small.

 

And the big things as well, a foil for the small. You notice the bison, formed and shaped by the land;  their bodies echoed in the knobs and the trees.

And you stop for a while, and marvel.

How do you begin to know a place?

Your skin is scraped raw by the roughness of grass. Then soothed by the silk of the Canada rye.

 

You watch the sun light the grass as it sinks out of view.

And the darkness throws all into impossible relief.

Grasses and shrubs…

 

…and wildflowers pink; catching the last light before going to sleep.

You reflect on what you know, and what you realize  you don’t.

 

There will always be mystery, here in the grass.

You absorb what you can; you listen and learn.

And let the rest wash over you. Too much to take in.

The story continues with each step that you take. And like a good book, you don’t want it to end.  You pull on your boots the next morning, and hike it again.

That’s how you begin.

To know a place.

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The opening quote is from The Old Ways: A Journey on Foot by British writer Robert Macfarlane (1976-), about the shaping of people and places.

All photos copyright Cindy Crosby: (top to bottom): road through Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; mist on the Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; common pondhawk dragonfly female (Erythemis simplicicollis), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; bison (Bison bison), Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; Canada wild rye, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL;  sunset with big bluestem (Andropogon gerardii), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL;  sunset with shrubs, Russell Kirt Prairie, College of DuPage, Glen Ellyn, IL; gaura (Gaura biennis), Nachusa Grasslands, the Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; cattails (Typha latifolia) on Silver Lake, Blackwell Forest Preserve of DuPage County, Warrenville, IL; mist, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; clouds, Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL.

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.

Flight Through the Tallgrass

“For once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return.” –Leonardo da Vinci

The summer sky tumbles her clouds. The prairie whispers, “flight.”

So many ways to reach new heights on the prairie in August. So many ways to take to the skies.

Butterflies drift through the air like colorful leaves. The tiger swallowtails take frequent snack breaks.

 

Silver skippers pause, dwarfed by the grasses now shooting skyward, considering their options.

 

Some prairie inhabitants fly only as far as a hop and a jump.

 

While others will travel distances limited only by the imagination.

 

Yet, as satisfying as it is to take to the air, it’s wise to find shade where you can. The blazing prairie sun offers no relief.

 

The zips and zags of dragonflies dazzle. When one dragonfly comes to rest on a budded blazing star, you can’t help but admire her intricate wings, those complex eyes.

 

So much is unfolding on the prairie in August.

 

You sense everything is moving in a new direction.

 

Time is flying. Will you be there, in the tallgrass?

 

 

You’ll be amazed at what you see…

…if you make time to look.

 

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The opening quote is by Leonardo DaVinci (1452-1519), perhaps the most diversely gifted person in history. Among his many interests was flight; he created plans for flying machines and studied the flight of birds.

All photos copyright Cindy Crosby: (top to bottom) big bluestem (Andropogon gerardii) against the August sky, Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; eastern tiger swallowtail butterfly (Papilio glaucus), St. James Forest Preserve, Warrenville, IL; silver-spotted skipper (Epargyreus clarus), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL;  green frog  (Lithobates clamitans), St. James Farm prairie area, Warrenville, IL;  American goldfinch(Spinus tristis), St. James Farm, Forest Preserve of DuPage County, Warrenville, IL;  great horned owl (Bubo virginianus), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL;  female blue dasher dragonfly (Pachydiplax longipennis)) on rough blazing star (Liatris aspera)  Belmont Prairie Nature Conserve, Downer’s Grove, IL;  Indian grass unfolding, (Sorghastrum nutans), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL;  old weather vane, St. James Farm, Forest Preserve of DuPage County, Warrenville, IL;  vehicle at Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; female eastern pondhawk (Erythemis simplicicollis ), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.

Prairie Bugs and Blooms

“When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe.” — John Muir

It’s August. The prairie shimmers with heat.

 

Even the cumulus clouds fail to dial down the temperature and humidity.

 

Dragonflies wiggle their bodies into cooler positions.

As the temperatures rise, big bluestem unfolds seedheads. You can see where it gets its nickname, “turkey foot.” Autumn seems to draw closer.

 

Blazing stars light their torches, showing the way to a new season ahead.

 

Tiny black bugs beetle their way across the blooms. When I shake a flower spike, there’s a tap-tap-tap of bugs falling into the tallgrass, like the patter of raindrops.

 

Some of my friends won’t walk with me on the prairie in August. “Too many bugs.”

Most of us find it easier to appreciate blooms…

 

…than to enjoy the complex world of insects.

Some people, longing for a insect-free yard, even contract for companies to spray and destroy everything that flies, crawls, creeps, or hops across their lawn.

But when we realize that there is a butterfly effect–that small actions can have a big influence on all living things…

…that everything is related, we consider this:

 

The bugs and blooms need each other to exist. When we lose one living thing, others go with it.

Then, we begin to appreciate the bugs of late summer along with the flowers.

Yes, we may brush a few insects off our clothes, and there might be a crawly critter lurking behind a petal or two.

 

But without bugs, we wouldn’t have blooms.

And who would want to live in a world without flowers?

 

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The opening quote is by John Muir (1838-1914) from My First Summer in the Sierra.  Muir was a naturalist, a preservationist, an activist, and the father of our national parks.

All photos copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): stiff goldenrod (Solidago rigida) and little bluestem (Schizachyrium scoparium), The Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; eastern amberwing dragonfly, female (Perithemis tenera), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; big bluestem (Andropogon gerardii) unfolding and open, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prairie blazing star, (Liatris pycnostachya), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL;  prairie blazing star (Liatris pycnostachya), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; swamp milkweed (Asclepias incarnata), Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL;  eastern forktail damselfly (Ischnura verticalis), Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; great spangled fritillary butterfly (Speyeria cybele) on beebalm (Monarda fistulosa), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; the tallgrass in August, Kickapoo Mud Creek Nature Conservancy, Oregon, IL; rattlesnake master (Eryngium yuccifolium), viceroy butterfly (Limenitis archippus), and some other assorted critters, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; obedient plant (Physostegia virginiana),  Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL;  late August, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.