Tag Archives: shooting star

Imagining the Prairie Year

“If the world is torn to pieces, I want to see what story I can find in fragmentation. –Terry Tempest Williams

“*****

Snow is in the forecast. A lot of snow. But how many times has the forecast promised a snowapocalypse, only to be be followed by a little rain; a “powdered sugar” dusting? Weather forecasting is an inexact science, even in an age where it seems we have so many answers at our fingertips.

On Sunday, I went for a hike on the Belmont Prairie, where the 56 degree weather and bluer-than-blue skies had melted most of the recent snow.

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The spring-like wind and warmth were in sharp contrast to  snowstorm predictions for the coming week.  On the prairie, everything looks frayed and chewed.

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Worn out.

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Broken.

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Even the compass plant leaves had disintegrated, their last leaf curls clinging to what is past and will soon be burned.

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A few seeds remain. In September, when the prairie brimmed and frothed with seeds, these might have gone unnoticed.

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As I walk at Belmont, I think of my coming stewardship work on the Schulenberg Prairie, which begins in April. What will we plant? What will we remove?  My head is full of plans and scenes of what is to come on the Midwestern prairies, imagining the prairie year ahead…

March

March is fire season.  Soon, very soon, we’ll burn the Schulenberg Prairie—-if the snowstorms fail to materialize and the weather cooperates.

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March, the time of fire and ice, will also bring transition.  It’s the first month of meteorological spring. It’s also mud season.

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April

April is the season of flowers—at last! I think of the hepatica, sunning themselves in the savanna.

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Everywhere, there will be signs of new life.

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May

I imagine the glorious shooting star in flower, a swaying coverlet of bumble bee enticing blooms. The prairie will hum with pollinators.

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The small white lady’s slipper orchid will briefly unfurl her flowers, hidden deep in the grasses.   I’ll drop to my knees in the mud to admire the blooms. More lovely, perhaps, for their fleeting presence here.

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June

In June, prairie smoke, in its impossible pink, will swirl through the grasses. Or will it? This wildflower has gone missing the past few years here. One of my management goals as a prairie steward is to see it bloom here again.

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There is no shortage of spiderwort that will open…

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…and mornings on the prairie will be washed with violet.

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July

Fireworks of a quieter kind will light up the tallgrass this month. Butterfly weed, that monarch caterpillar magnet, will explode with eye-popping color.

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Bees and other butterflies will make frequent stops to nectar.  This brilliant milkweed is a front row seat to the cycle of life on the prairie.

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August

We’ll be seeing red in August. Royal catchfly, that is. Not much of it. But a little goes a long way, doesn’t it?

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Its less finicky neighbor, gray-headed coneflower, will fly its yellow pennants nearby. Cicadas will begin playing their rasping music. The hot, steamy days of August will have us thinking longingly of a little snow, a little ice.

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September

The end of this month brings the first waves of sandhill cranes, headed south.

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While on the ground, the buzz is all about asters…New England asters. Good fuel here for bees, and also the butterflies.

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October

October is a season of goodbyes. Warblers and cranes and other migratory birds are moving in bigger waves now toward the south. The last hummingbird stops by the feeder. On the prairie, we’ll be collecting prairie grass seeds and wrapping up our steward work.

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Winding up another prairie growing season.

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November

Everything crisps up in November — except the carrion vine, which still carries its plump seeds across the prairie.

 

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The bison are ready for winter, their heavy coats insulation against the coming cold.BisonONE-CROSBYBison-NG fall 2017CROSBYWM.jpg

 

 

December

Temperatures drop.

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Snow falls, outlining the prairie paths. Winter silences the prairie.

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January

Ice plays on a thousand prairie creeks and ponds as the snow flattens the tallgrass.

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Blue snow shadows transform the prairie.

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And then, we will have come full circle to…

February

Here at Belmont Prairie, where I snap out of my imagining. I remind myself to enjoy the present moment. This February is so short! And each day is a gift to be marveled over. Only a few days remain until March.

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I wonder where I’ll be a year from now. Hiking at Belmont Prairie? I hope so. Marveling again at the last seeds and flowerheads, catching the late winter sun.

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Thinking of spring! It’s in the red-winged blackbird’s song.

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The prairie season goes ’round and ’round. A snowstorm today? Maybe. Spring? You can almost smell it in the air.

Today, anything seems possible.

****

Terry Tempest Williams (1955-) quote from Erosion: Essays of Undoing, opens this post. She is the author of many books including: Red: Passion and Patience in the Desert, and Refuge: An Unnatural History of Family and Place. Williams is Writer-in-Residence at Harvard Divinity School, and lives in Castle Valley, Utah.

All photos copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve in February, Downer’s Grove, IL; pale purple coneflower (Echinacea pallida) seedhead, Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; unknown leaf, Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; broken black-eyed susan (Rudbeckia hirta), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; compass plant (Silphium laciniatum), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; prairie brome (Bromus kalmii), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; bison (Bison bison) track in ice, Nachusa Grassland, Franklin Grove, IL (The Nature Conservancy IL); hepatica (Hepatica noblis acuta); Schulenberg Prairie Savanna, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; bird’s nest, Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL (The Nature Conservancy); shooting star (Dodecatheon meadia); small white lady’s slipper orchid(Cypripedium candidum), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; prairie smoke (Geum triflorum), University of Wisconsin-Madison Arboretum Visitor Center, Curtis Prairie, Madison, WI; spiderwort (Tradescantia ohiensis), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; spiderwort (Tradescantia ohiensis), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; monarch caterpillar (Danaus plexippus) and butterflyweed (Asclepias tuberosa), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; monarch (Danaus plexippus) and butterflyweed (Asclepias tuberosa), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; royal catchfly (Silene regia), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; gray-headed coneflower (Ratibida pinnata), author’s backyard prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; sandhill cranes (Antigone canadensis), Jasper-Pulaski Fish & Wildlife Area,  Medaryville, Indiana; bumble bee on New England Aster (Symphyotrichum novae-angliae); author’s backyard prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL: seed collecting, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; blazing star (Liatris spp.), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; carrion flower (Smileax spp.) Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL;  bison (Bison bison), Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL; Gensburg-Markham Prairie, Markham, IL: path through Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL;  bridge over the Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL (The Nature Conservancy IL); path through Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; Indian grass (Sorghastrum nutans), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.

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Join Cindy for a class or event!

The Tallgrass Prairie: An Introduction– February 29, Saturday 10-11 a.m.,  Aurora Public Library,  101 South River, Aurora, IL. Free and open to the public! Book signing follows.

Nature Writing Workshop (a blended online and in-person course, three Tuesday evenings in-person) begins March 3 at The Morton Arboretum in Lisle, IL. For details and registration, click here. Sold out. Call to be put on the waiting list.

The Tallgrass Prairie: A ConversationMarch 12  Thursday, 10am-12noon, Leafing Through the Pages Book Club, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL. Open to the public; however, all regular Arboretum admission fees apply.  Books available at The Arboretum Store.

Dragonfly Workshop, March 14  Saturday, 9-11:30 a.m.  Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL. Free and open to new and experienced dragonfly monitors, prairie stewards, and the public, but you must register by March 1. Contact phrelanzer@aol.com for more information,  details will be sent with registration.

Tallgrass Prairie Ecology Online begins March 26 through the Morton Arboretum.  Details and registration here.

See more at http://www.cindycrosby.com   

A New Year in the Tallgrass

“Joy as I see it involves embracing life. … Joy isn’t the opposite of sorrow, but encompasses and transcends sorrow. You know you’re truly connected with yourself when you’re experiencing joy.” — Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge

*****

Where did 2019 go? The time passed so quickly.

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This year we saw changes on the prairies we love. After the prescribed burns that torched the tallgrass…

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… we marveled at the new growth soon after.

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Watched the early pasque flowers bloom….

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and then, set seeds for the future.

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We stood amazed at the constellations of shooting star, bent and humming with bumble bees.

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Then, were astonished at the July wildflowers. Sure, we seem them each summer. But each year seems like a miracle.

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Now, at the end of December, the prairie has its own sort of loveliness. The beauty of sky and clouds…

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…the delights of a single seedhead.

Pasture thistle.

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Bee balm.

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Blazing star.

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Each prairie plant has a different method of making seeds and ensuring its future. Each has  a story to tell.

Remembering the familiar cycle of prescribed fire, new growth, flushes of color, and fruition of seed are all comforting at the close of the year.

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It comforts us as we remember how, in 2019, we wrote our own stories. Some of us lost people we loved. Had surgery. Battled cancer. Made new friends. Laughed a lot. Cried a lot, too. Weeded, seeded. Planned and worked to make those plans—both on the prairie and off—a reality. Celebrated the successes. Resolved to learn from the failures.

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In 2019, there were the surprises and vagaries of weather. Remember the big snow in April? Then, the cold and wet through the middle of June. Blazing hot in July. Snow on Halloween. Sixty degree days in December. Through it all, the prairie sailed on. The tallgrass  prairie was built for these extremes.

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Woven through 2019 was joy. True joy. The kind that is hard-won. The prairie, with its glories and challenges, defeats and delights, reminds us of this. Fire brings growth. Deep roots hold firm, drawing from long-held reserves when unexpected events throw the season out of kilter. The prairie survives.

It survives, also in part, because of people with vision.  Each prairie is a story of sweat and joy; patience and persistence. Of survival. Like a Polaroid snapshot, stewards and volunteers bring struggling remnants back into sharp focus.

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Many saved at the eleventh hour.GensburgMarkhambigbluestemWM122719.jpg

2019 was the continuing story of people who care enough to preserve places that aren’t always easy—at first glance–to understand. When I drive by the roughly 105-acre Gensburg-Markham prairie on congested I-294, set aside in 1971, I wonder what most commuters whizzing by this precious remnant think about it. Do they know what was saved, and why it matters? Do they wonder why it was never developed? Or is it just a blur in their rear view mirrors as they speed to their destinations?

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Do the people who drive by the 91-acre Sundrop Prairie, dedicated in 2000 and part of the Indian Boundary Prairies in Markham, IL, know what a treasure these acres contain?

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The tallgrass grows and changes. Our understanding of their importance evolves. And yet, the prairies continue on, as they have for hundreds of thousands of years. There’s a comfort in knowing that when we’re gone, the prairies will continue to survive and thrive under the care of future generations.

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I think of these things as I hike a prairie trail at Fermilab in the last days of the year. According to the Chicago Tribune, “In 1975 when he heard that Fermi National Accelerator Laboratory, near Batavia, was looking for suggestions on what to do with the thousands of acres it owned, Bob Betz sat down with then-director Robert Wilson and went over his vision of having a restored prairie on the property. ‘And when Dr. Wilson asked how long it was going to take, Dr. Betz said, ‘Ten, 20 or maybe 30 years,’ then Dr. Wilson said, ‘Well, we better get started this afternoon.’ ” From these beginnings, beautiful prairies were planted and now thrive at Fermilab.

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Prairie remnants like the Indian Boundary Prairies—Sundrop and Gensburg-Markham— require people to discover them, bring them to the attention of the rest of us, and then, care for them with prescribed fire and stewardship. They require organizations like the Nature Conservancy and Northeastern Illinois University and others, and the generous donations of individuals, to ensure their protection. They require vision. And action. I think of Bob Betz, and his work with the Indian Boundary Prairies, as well as with Fermilab’s natural areas.  I think of the volunteers who undertake a hundred different tasks to maintain prairies today.

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Other preserves, like Nachusa Grasslands in Franklin Grove, IL–which has both remnant and planted prairies—shows the rewards of focused funding and care since 1986 by the Nature Conservancy Illinois and later, joined in that care by Friends of Nachusa Grasslands. I think also of the 100-acre Schulenberg Prairie at the Morton Arboretum just outside of Chicago, and the volunteers, including myself, who dedicate time each season to cut brush, plant new natives, and collect seeds. Such different prairies! Each one irreplaceable.

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Now, it’s time to close another chapter in the life of the prairies. 2019 is a wrap.

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2020 is waiting. So much possibility!

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So much good work to do. So much joy to look forward to.

*****

The opening quote is included in the book, Poemcrazy: Freeing Your Life with Words by Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge. It’s one of my favorite books on writing; I re-read it at least once a year.

***

All photos copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): little bluestem (Schizachyrium scoparium), Sundrop Prairie, Midlothian, IL: prescribed burn, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; greening up after the prescribed burn, top of Dot’s Knob, Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL: pasque flowers (Pulsatilla patens) in bloom, Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL; pasque flowers (Pulsatiilla patens) in seed, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; shooting star (Dodecatheon meadia), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; July at Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL; the end of December at Fermilab Natural Areas, interpretive trail, Batavia, IL; pasture thistle (Cirsium discolor), Gensburg-Markham Prairie, Markham, IL; bee balm (Monarda fistulosa), Gensburg-Markham Prairie, Markham, IL; blazing star (probably Liastris aspera), Gensburg-Markham Prairie, Markham, IL; Culver’s root (Veronicastrum virginicum), Sundrop Prairie, Midlothian, IL; common milkweed (Asclepias syriaca), Sundrop Prairie, Midlothian, IL; tall coreopsis (Coreopsis tripteris), Sundrop Prairie, Midlothian, IL; backlit prairie plants (unknown), Sundrop Prairie, Midlothian, IL; big bluestem (Andropogon gerardii), Gensburg-Markham Prairie, Markham, IL; Illinois nature preserve sign, Gensburg-Markham Prairie, Markham, IL; Sundrop Prairie in December, Midlothian, IL; Gensburg-Markham Prairie with bee balm (Monarda fistulosa), grasses, and wild quinine (Parthenium integrifolium), Gensburg-Markham Prairie, Markham, IL; Fermilab interpretive trail edges at the end of December, Batavia, IL; Carolina horsenettle (Solanum carolinense), Fermilab interpretive prairie trail, Batavia, IL: prairie cordgrass (Spartina pectinata), Gensburg-Markham Prairie, Markham, IL; Wilson Hall from the interpretive trail, Fermilab Natural Areas, Batavia, IL;  interpretive trail at Fermilab Natural Areas at the end of December, Batavia, IL.

***

Please join Cindy at one of her upcoming classes or talks in the new year!

Nature Writing and Art Retreat, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL, February 22 (Saturday) 8 a.m.-4 p.m. Cindy will be facilitating the writing portion. Register here.

Tallgrass Prairie Ecology Online begins March 26.  Details and registration here.

Nature Writing Workshop (a blended online and in-person course, three Tuesday evenings in-person) begins March 3 at The Morton Arboretum. For details and registration, click here. 

Happy New Year! Thank you for reading. See you in 2020.

The Prairie Conservation Cradle

“Unique in the world, the University of Wisconsin Arboretum is the birthplace of a practice called restoration ecology. ” –Liz Anna Kozik

*******

When I was a bookseller, I had a t-shirt that read “So many books. So little time.” Today, as a prairie steward, I need a shirt like this—-only with “prairies” instead of the word “books.”

With this in mind, I visited University of Wisconsin-Madison’s Arboretum over the weekend with an agenda: Curtis and Greene Prairies. One day to hike the two and discover their treasures. One day—and I knew it wouldn’t be enough.

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I check the closed Visitor Center to see their business hours. Open at 9 am. Barn swallows have plastered two nests over the Visitor Center doors, and the moms and dads aren’t especially happy to see me.

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They line their nests with grass. How appropriate! It’s only 7:30 am, so I have plenty of time to hike before the bookstore opens. I wander through the visitor center prairie display gardens, which have some lovely plants I’ve struggled to replicate back in Illinois. Hello, prairie smoke!

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We’ve lost this iconic plant on the Schulenberg Prairie where I’m a steward, and I’ve been looking for local seed sources to jump start it again. So far, no luck.

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Prairie smoke has also disappeared in my backyard prairie planting. I wonder. Did I burn my prairie patch too early one year? Or is it just too wet? I’m not sure why I lost it. All I know is I want it again. Pure prairie plant envy.

The Visitor Center overlooks the 73-acre Curtis Prairie, known as the oldest prairie restoration in the world, established in 1935.  I’ve visited the Curtis Prairie before, but only in winter.  Today, it’s already warm, and there’s not a cloud in the sky.  Spiderwebs encrusted with condensation are thrown across the wildflowers, and sparks of light glint from every grass blade.

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Dew-covered wild geraniums send up their signature seed pods along the shadier edges of the trails. You can see why this plant’s nickname is “cranesbill.”

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Cream wild indigo sprawls across a grassy incline in the sunshine.

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Shooting star is in differing stages of bud, bloom, and seed. I relish the transitions.

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Except for the occasional jogger out for a morning run, there’s plenty of solitude. But the prairie is busy with the zip and whir of wings. A red-winged blackbird calls, then a black saddlebag dragonfly zooms by. Song sparrows tune up. Green frogs strum their broken banjo strings, calling nearby.

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I hike through the puddles, and then through a wall of willows on one side of the prairie trail following the frog calls. On the other side of the willows is a small pond.

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Worth investigating. Squish. Squish. Squish. My boots sink into the muck with each step through the willows. I glass the water with my binoculars and….there! A muskrat cuts through the pond, then dives.

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Not far away, a turtle sticks its head out of the water, soaking up sun. It’s a veritable “Where’s Waldo”  to see it in the algae. Good camouflage.

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I could spend the rest of the morning here, seeing what shows up, but the slant of my shadow tells me it’s time to get going.  A moth flies out of the grasses, close to the edge of the trees. Later, back home, I consult my Peterson’s Guide to make the ID. A fan-footed moth! Such subtle coloration. I’m not sure what exact species, but I’m learning.

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The morning has slipped away. Returning to the parking lot, I stumble across…an egg? What in the world? At first, I think someone has dropped their breakfast. Then, I remember the large birds I saw here on my winter hike. Turkeys!

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The Arboretum’s bookstore is open now. I ransack it for prairie books, then take the titles to a local coffee shop and ply myself with caffeine as I flip through them. Books on nature. Prairie ID guides. A children’s book on bees for the grandkids. Ballasted by books and jazzed by the java, I pull out my map and prepare to tackle my second goal: Greene Prairie, the second-oldest prairie restoration in the world.

I make the mistake of driving to it. After several misses, back and forth across “the Beltline” highway which splits the Arboretum in two, I finally find a tiny parking lot piled with gravel. There’s a small opening in a fence. Success! Later, I learn I could have hiked here under the Beltline from the Curtis Prairie. Next time.

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It’s cool and quiet. Not another soul on the trail. Plenty of poison ivy. I’m glad I wore my knee-high rubber wading boots. Gnats swarm around my face, and I’m grateful for my headnet. My boots sink into the sandy trails, rutted  with rainwater.

So beautiful.

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The woods open up to sunshine on sandy knolls, covered in wildflowers. Balsam ragwort splashes gold on both sides of the trail, with fluffy field pussytoes mixed in, going to seed.

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And then, there’s the lupine. Wow.

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I admire the blue-purple spikes, something we don’t have on the Schulenberg Prairie at The Morton Arboretum where I’m a steward, only a few hours drive south. Amazing how a relatively short distance can result in such different species! Different soil types. Different prairies.

Around a curve, over a rise —and there! Hoary puccoon. We have a few straggly plants on the Schulenberg Prairie, but nothing like this profusion of golden blooms. So this is what hoary puccoon looks like when it’s in its happy place, I think. (I later discover this is hairy puccoon, which helps explain the difference!)

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And suddenly, I see it. Greene Prairie.

 

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Yes! It’s been on my bucket list for a long time.

But what’s this? A sign! No Hiking. Trail Closed.  Oh no! I stand in front of the sign for a bit, considering.  Too much rain? Too much mud—too damaging to the prairie to hike it.  I hike around the prairie, looking for the next interior trail. Same signs here. Plus an  interpretive sign.

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Interesting information. Context. Guidance for hikers like me, hoping to learn about an unknown place. A place I’m not going to explore in the way I’d hoped today.

Looking longingly into the larger prairie area—and reluctantly deciding to be good and not hike it anyway—I take the open trail that skims the edges of the tallgrass. It opens up occasionally to give me vistas of what I won’t be able to hike through. What a tease! These glimpses will have to serve. I’ll hope for drier weather on my next trip. And I vow the “next trip” will be soon.

As I move away from the interior prairie trails, my first reward for being a rule-follower today is… wild turkeys. A group of three move across the path, hustling a bit as I approach. There’s a ruffle of feathers; a show of wings…

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…a bit of turkey posturing. Cheered, I continue onward.

The second reward is a dragonfly. The 12-spotted skimmer is a common Odonate, but no less beautiful for its ubiquity.

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We both bask in the sunshine as I stop and admire it for a while.  I realize the day-long hiking adventure has worn me out, and I’m at the furthest point from my car possible. It’s nice to have an excuse to rest.

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Something becomes familiar to me only after a long relationship with a place. These common things  I’ve seen today—12-spotted skimmer dragonflies, hoary puccoon and prairie smoke—are touchstones when I explore places with a community I don’t know much about. Like these beautiful Wisconsin prairie restorations. My relationship with these prairies is still new, and I’ve got a lot to learn from them.

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I think of the juxtaposition between the common and the rare, the familiar and the unfamiliar as I begin the hike back to the car through the lovely Southwest Grady Oak Savanna. The past—Greene and Curtis Prairies. They became a foundation for the future—the work that we do to protect and restore prairie today.  What can I learn from the past? How does it inform the future?

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There’s so much to see here. So much to understand and pay attention to. It’s tough to leave.

But I’ll be back.

*****

The opening quote is from Liz Anna Kozik, Stories of the Land: Critters, Plants and People of Ecological Restoration, which was written and illustrated for her masters of fine arts degree in design studies at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. See some of Liz’s fine arts work in prairie restoration comics, textiles, and words here.

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All photos copyright Cindy Crosby from University of Wisconsin Arboretum, Madison, WI: (top to bottom) welcome sign; barn swallow (Hirundo rustica), Visitor Center Display Gardens; prairie smoke (Geum triflorum), Visitor Center Display Gardens; prairie smoke (Geum triflorum), Visitor Center Display Gardens; wild geranium (Geranium maculatum), Curtis Prairie; cream wild indigo (Baptisia bracteata), Curtis Prairie; shooting star (Dodecatheon meadia), Curtis Prairie;  trail through Curtis Prairie with willow wall; Curtis Prairie Pond; muskrat (Ondatra zibethicus), Curtis Prairie Pond; turtle (possibly Chrysemys picta), Curtis Prairie Pond; fan-footed moth (species uncertain), Curtis Prairie; turkey  (Meleagris gallopavo) egg, Curtis Prairie; entrance to Grady Tract/Greene Prairie; trail to Greene Prairie through the savanna; pussy toes (Antennaria neglecta), Green Prairie Grady Tract; wild lupine (Lupinus perennis), Green Prairie Grady Tract; hairy puccoon (Lithospermum caroliniense), Green Prairie Grady Tract; view of Greene Prairie; Green Prairie interpretive sign; wild turkey (Meleagris gallopavo);  12-spotted skimmer dragonfly (Libellula pulchella), Greene Prairie-Grady Tract; bench on the hike to Greene Prairie; shadows on the Curtis Prairie trail; large-flowered beardtongue (Penstemon grandiflorus), Visitor Center display gardens.

Cindy’s Speaking and Classes in June:

Friday, June 14Dragonfly and Damselfly ID at The Morton Arboretum, 8-11:30 am (Sold Out)

Thursday, June 20The Tallgrass Prairie: Grocery Story, Apothecary, and Love Charm Shop, 7-9 p.m., Rock Valley Wild Ones, Rock Valley Community College with book signing. More information here. Free and open to the public!

Wednesday, June 26: Tallgrass Prairie Ecology Online through The Morton Arboretum. Register here, and complete the course at your own pace over 60 days.

Just added! Friday, June 28Dragonfly and Damselfly ID at The Morton Arboretum, 8-11:30 a.m. Register here.

See more at http://www.cindycrosby.com

After a Prairie Storm

“Today is wet, damp, soggy and swollen…The grass loves this world swamp, this massive aerial soup. You can see it grow before your eyes.”  — Josephine W. Johnson

*****

Thunderstorms rumble away, moving purposefully east. There is a last flash of lightning.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

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Waterlogged again. The prairie attempts to soak up the most recent deluge. Willoway Brook overflows with run-off, carving a muddy swath through the bright grasses.

The spring prairie wildflowers are tougher under these hard rain onslaughts than you might think. Momentarily freighted with water, they rebound quickly and stand ready for pollinators. Shooting star begins its business of setting seed. Magenta prairie phlox opens new blooms. Golden Alexanders are an exercise in prairie pointillism, dabbing the sea of green with bright spots.

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Rain has soaked the prairie for weeks. It’s a lesson in patience. I’ve cancelled prairie workdays for my volunteers; put off pressing prairie projects, waiting for a drizzle-free morning. On Thursday, I took advantage of a rare bit of sunshine to hike some prairie trails.  I should have brought my kayak.

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On Sunday, I walked the same trails during another break in the storms, marveling at the just-opened wildflowers. Other than a few hot pinks and the blast of orange hoary puccoon, the early spring prairie blooms seem to favor a pale palette. Pure white starry campion has opened, as have the first snow-colored meadow anemones. Blue-eyed grass stars the prairie whenever the sun appears…

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…closing when it clouds up, or there’s a downpour.

This weekend I spotted pale penstemon, sometimes called pale beardtongue, for the first time this season. Bastard toadflax bloomed at its feet.

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Cream wild indigo is having a banner year. Its silver-leaved mounds of pale yellow pea-like blooms are stunning on the prairie. At Jeff and my wedding reception 36 years ago, we served cake, punch, mixed nuts, and butter mints in pastel green, pink, and yellow. Remember those mints? They’d melt in your mouth. When I see cream wild indigo, I think of those yellow butter mints—a dead ringer for the indigo’s color.

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Wild strawberries also put a tingle in my taste buds, although I know the flowers often fail to fruit. Even if the bloom does produce a tiny strawberry, it will likely be gobbled by mice or other mammals before I get a chance to taste it. The animals will scatter the seeds across the tallgrass in their scat.

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Virginia waterleaf is in full display, dangling its clusters of bell-shaped blooms. Pink to pale lavender flowers are common, but I see a few bleached white. I read in iNaturalist that when the blooms are exposed to sun, they quickly lose their color.  I wonder—when was there enough sunshine in May for that to happen?

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The yellows of wood betony are almost all bloomed out now, and even the bright pinks and lavenders of shooting star seem to fade and run like watercolors in the rain.

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May storms will—hopefully—produce lush grasses and prolific summer wildflowers as the days lead us to summer. The first monarchs and other butterflies which seem to appear daily will appreciate the nectar-fest just around the corner. I think ahead to the grasses stretching to the sky; the bright yellows and purples of summer flowers.

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Keep your fingers crossed. Sunshine is surely on the way.

*****

Josephine W. Johnson (1910-1990), an environmental activist and nature writer whose quote opens this post, won the Pulitzer Prize in 1935 for her novel, Now in November. In  The Inland Island (1969), she pens observations about the natural world in a month-by-month framework.

*****

All photos and video this week are taken at the Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL, copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): false Solomon’s seal (Smilacina racemosa) video clip of Willoway Brook, after the storm; golden Alexanders (Zizia aurea); flooded trail;  blue-eyed grass (Sisyrinchium albidum) pale penstemon or beardtongue (Penstemon pallidus) with bastard toadflax (Comandra umbellata) in the lower left corner; cream wild indigo (Baptisia bracteata); wild strawberry (Fragaria virginiana); Virginia waterleaf (Hydrophyllum virginianum); shooting star (Dodecatheon meadia; trail to the prairie in the rain.

*****

Cindy’s Upcoming Classes and Events:

Saturday, June 1, 1-4 p.m.–The Tallgrass Prairie: A Conversation—talk, book signing and bison tour. The talk is free and open to the public but you must reserve your spot. (See details on book purchase for bison tour). Register here — only eight spots left for the bison tour (limit 60).

Thursday, June 6, 6:30-9 p.m. —The Tallgrass Prairie: A Conversation—talk, book signing and picnic social at Pied Beauty Farm in Stoughton, WI. See details here. 

Friday, June 14 — Dragonfly and Damselfly ID, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL, 8:30-11 a.m. (Sold out)

Just added! Friday, June 28–Dragonfly and Damselfly ID — The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL  8-11:30 a.m. (more details and registration here).

Find more at cindycrosby.com

Rainy Day Prairie Pleasures

“Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers… .” — Mary Oliver

*****

Rain, rain, rain. As we wake to another cold, wet spring morning in northeastern Illinois—with the promise of more in the forecast—it’s difficult to not get discouraged. Looking back over the past weeks…whitetaileddeerBelmontPrairie519WM.jpg

…it seems as if the Chicago region is setting records for the wettest spring weather. In fact, as of May 15, this is the 15th wettest in the city of Chicago’s recorded history (since 1871).

Even so. It’s a lot of precipitation.

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Whenever the sun makes a surprise appearance, it’s worth a trip to the prairies in my area to soak up every moment. Surprises await. The warmth and light coaxes out the early butterflies. Mourning cloaks emerge from hibernation, nectaring on bladderwort blooms.

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In the dappled light of the prairie savanna, a female scarlet tanager perches, her more flamboyant mate nearby. What a pairing—the red and the yellow!

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A lone sandhill crane flies over the prairie. Its rattling call seems lonely, without a supporting cast of another dozen or more birds. I wonder. What is it doing all by itself? I usually see the cranes in high-flying flocks. And why is it here so late?

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I learn that a few sandhill cranes raise their young locally; as close as Fermilab’s natural areas in Batavia and other welcoming sites here in the Chicago region.  It’s a shift from the past, when they summered further up north. I watch until the lone crane disappears, headed west.

At my feet, the cool, wet spring offers its own particular rewards.  Jacob’s ladder tumbles across the emerald prairie. I’ve never seen it so prolific. So much blue.

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The wild geraniums put in an appearance after what seems like endless delay. That color! They rim the edges of the prairie in pink. Happiest, perhaps, in the woodlands and savanna, where they enjoy more shade. Did you know wild geranium pollen is blue? Something new I learned this spring. I always thought all flower pollen was yellow, but it evidently comes in all the colors of the rainbow, from red to orange to green.

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Shooting star reflexes its flowers, with plenty of buds promising more to open. Have you seen the bumblebees working their magic? They’re engaged in sonication.

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commonly called “buzz pollination.”  The bumblebees vibrate the blooms with their “buzz” and shake the pollen out on the anthers. Nope, honeybees aren’t strong enough to pollinate these wildflowers. It’s another reason to care about bumblebees, if you need one!

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Our local carnival has been in full swing downtown this week, much to the delight of our grandkids. When I see the wood betony on the prairie spiraling upwards, I can’t help but be reminded of those swirling rides: the tilt-a-whirl, the Ferris wheels, and those spinning cylinders that made me so dizzy as a kid. Festive, isn’t it?

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Does the plentiful wood betony seem like a cheap thrill? If so, there are more exotic blooms waiting to be discovered. If you’re lucky, on a few of Chicago’s regional prairies, you’ll happen across the small white lady’s slipper in full bloom.

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So tiny! Unlike its larger blossomed cousins, the pink lady’s slipper and the yellow.

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I fall to my knees in the mud in admiration. Wow.

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So perfectly formed. So delicately colored.

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A fleeting delight.

But not the only one. The first wild hyacinths spangle open. Their distinctive fragrance and color is a magnet for human visitors. Bees, flies, butterflies and wasps also visit.

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Right on schedule, blue-eyed grass (ironically not a grass, and with no blue center), shows up, low, tiny, and delicate.

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If you study the blue-eyed grass closely, deep in the muck, you’ll notice other more subtle wildflowers. The bastard toadflax in pearly bloom. Erupting milkweed leaves. A mud-splattered Philadelphia daisy fleabane, unfurling its buds.

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The new shoots of big bluestem appear, furred and supple. Prairie dropseed scrub brushes are easy to name, with their mounds of green. Other grass shoots spear their way across the wet prairie, difficult to ID. Switchgrass. Indian grass. Canada wild rye.

Summer wildflowers are leafing out. I reacquaint myself with each one, like seeing old friends. Some are months away from bloom, but already distinct. Culver’s root. The sunflower gang. Compass plant. Occasionally, you find a  hybridization between the compass plant and prairie dock. Obviously, some Silphium hanky-panky going on here.

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And suddenly, it seems, the starry false Solomon’s seal has opened everywhere; a constellation of knee-high wildflowers in a universe of green.

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So much to marvel at. So much to pay attention to.

As I write these words, storm clouds are moving in…again. It’s difficult to remember what a sunny day looks like, after all the gloomy ones.

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But after thinking about all of the joys and surprises of this cool, wet spring, I find it tough to complain.

You too?

****

The opening quote is by the late Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, Mary Oliver (1935-2019) from her poem, “The Wild Geese.” Watch and listen to her read her beautiful poem here. 

*****

All photos copyright Cindy Crosby : (top to bottom): white-tailed deer (Odocoileus virginianus), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; storm clouds over Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downer’s Grove, IL; mourning cloak butterfly  (Nymphalis antiopa), Schulenberg Prairie Visitor Station Area, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL;  female scarlet tanager (Piranga olivacea), Schulenberg Prairie Savanna, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL;  sandhill crane (Antigone canadensis), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; Jacob’s ladder (Polemonium reptans), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; wild geranium (Geranium maculatum), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; shooting star (Dodecatheon meadia) with bumblebee, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; shooting star (Dodecatheon meadia), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; wood betony (Pedicularis canadensis), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; small white lady’s slipper orchid (Cypripedium candidum), Chicago Region; small white lady’s slipper orchid (Cypripedium candidum), Chicago Region; small white lady’s slipper orchid (Cypripedium candidum), Chicago Region; small white lady’s slipper orchid (Cypripedium candidum), Chicago Region; wild hyacinth (Camassia scilloides), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL: common blue-eyed grass (Sisyrinchium albidum), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; Philadelphia fleabane (Erigeron philadelphicus), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; hybridization between compass plant (Silphium laciniatum) and prairie dock (Silphium terebinthinaceum), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; starry false Solomon’s seal (Smilacina stellata or Maianthemum stellatum), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; gloomy day at Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL. Special thanks to Donna U. for her great talk on wild geraniums and blue pollen.

Cindy’s upcoming classes and speaking:

Tonight! Tuesday, May 21, 7-9 pm: Bloomingdale Garden Club, Bloomingdale, IL: “Dragonflies and Damselflies: The Garden’s Frequent Flyers” — Free and open to the public. St. Paul Evangelical Church, 118 First Street, Bloomingdale, IL.

Thursday, May 23, 6:30-9 p.m.: Part two: “A Cultural History of the Tallgrass Prairie” continues at The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.

Now through May 27: Tallgrass Prairie Ecology Online–continues at The Morton Arboretum. Next online class begins June 26. See details and registration information here.

“The Tallgrass Prairie: A Conversation” — Saturday, June 1,  1-4 p.m, Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL. Free lecture followed by book signing, then a prairie and bison tour with purchase of a book. Seating is limited: Must pre-register here. Only 15 bison tour spots left! Thanks to Friends of Nachusa Grasslands for hosting this event.

“The Tallgrass Prairie: A Conversation” — Thursday, June 6 , 7:30-9 p.m., Pied Beauty Farm, Stoughton, WI. Bring a picnic basket for the social at 6 p.m.  See details here.

“Dragonfly and Damselfly ID“—Friday, June 14, 8-11:30 a.m., The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL. Sold Out, call to be put on a waiting list.

More classes and programs at http://www.cindycrosby.com

Tallgrass Thank You Notes

“…I hear a sound, sometimes a little more than a whisper, of something falling, arriving, fallen, a seed …there is no trace of regret in the sound or in the stillness after the falling, no sound of hesitation on the way, no question and no doubt.” M.S. Merwin

***

I’ve been catching up on my thank-you notes this week, nudged by the upcoming holiday that reminds me to be grateful. Ironic, isn’t it? A week in the Midwest in which we dedicate ourselves to be thankful falls in one of the gloomiest seasons of the year.

What if Thanksgiving fell in July? Easy to get in a thankful mood.

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Or May, when shooting star blooms carpet the prairie after a long, cold winter; everything seems bathed in joy and delight. Do I feel thankful then? You bet!shootingstarSPMA51918wm

But November! Well, she makes no apologies for who she is.  November’s given me a lot to be grateful for. So, as I write my thank-you notes to people in my life this week, I figure I should write a few to November as well.

Here goes…

Thanks, November–your gray days are a foil for aspects of the prairie I’d otherwise overlook.  Would I notice the dangling seedpods of white wild indigo if they appeared this way in sunny July? Perhaps not. They seem to take on added charisma on gray, snow-spitting days.  “Prairie bling” of a certain kind.

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I appreciate how some of the less exciting plants get their moment in the spotlight this month, November. Late figwort isn’t a particularly glamorous plant, but this month, it gets a makeover. Without the pops of bright July wildflower color or distractions of butterflies and bees, the eye is drawn to figwort’s kitschy structure. Looks a bit like some management diagrams I’ve seen,  or maybe an organizational flow chart.

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Other flora and fauna of the prairie are worth a second look in November. Carrion flower, which twines its way through the prairie grasses without a lot of fanfare during the warm weather, is a show-stopper this month. (Nope, it’s not edible—unless you’re a bird or a mammal).

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November even gives the humble bison track some seasonal flair. Glitzy!

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Thanks for the unexpected, November. The rhythm of sandhill crane migration through prairie skies is an expected pleasure this month. But November bird life holds some surprises.

John Heneghen's Varied ThrushWM2 111918 Like this little guy, above. Our friends, John and Trisha, had a varied thrush show up this week in their backyard, not far from their prairie patch. The varied thrush is an erratic migrant from the West Coast not normally seen in the Midwest. Its arrival here in the Chicago region is a November serendipity. People drove from around the Midwest to see and add this colorful thrush to their life lists. Who knows what other avian surprises might appear this month?

Hey, November, thanks for teaching me about adapting and surviving.

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The hairs of the compass plant above speak of hard times. Each hair catches moisture and helps retain water, which keeps the compass plant alive through brutal Midwestern droughts. November peels away all the color and glam of a compass plant, and reminds me of how tough some of our prairie plants are. It’s a memo to myself, as well; a reminder that I have cultivated ways to navigate the difficult times of my life.  Survival skills. Adaptations.

November reminds me, “You’ve got this.” 

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Thanks, November for the transition. Change is good, right? Well, maybe. But change is usually difficult. As much as I enjoy the change of seasons, I also have trouble letting go of whatever season I’m in. As I get older, it seems time moves more quickly, with less time to adjust. November, with its segue from autumn into meteorological winter, helps make the transition to the end of the year a little easier.

willowaybrookSPMA118The photo above of Willoway Brook on the Schulenberg Prairie is a study in transitions. Snow has settled around the stream, which is just a breath away from freezing but still runs free and clear. High quality prairie on the left is juxtaposed with invasive reed canary grass along the shoreline, which prairie volunteers battled to a hard-fought draw this season. The partly-dead reed canary grass hangs over the brook, admiring its reflection, perhaps, and—in my mind—thumbing its proverbial nose at us. We’ve decided to let a certain amount of reed canary grass colonize the streambanks as we focus on other restoration activities on the prairie, a decision made simply from a time-management standpoint. The above photo tells many stories about persistence and patience; resistance and acceptance.

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Which reminds me…

Thanks, November, for the people who care for prairie. People like the site managers and volunteers and stewards. People like the prairie donors and environmental activists who make a difference. Those who take a child out to see the prairie. The person who shares a photo of the tallgrass with a friend. People like you—who care about the natural world.

The curtain is coming down on another year in the tallgrass. As it does…

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…I want to say thank you for reading. Thank you for being a part of the work that keeps the tallgrass prairie alive and thriving. Thank you for sharing your love of prairie with others. And, thank you for your part in keeping the tallgrass prairie visible, both in our communities and in people’s hearts and minds.

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What about you? Is there a thank-you note you’d like to write to November? Leave it in the comments section below as a reminder of what we have to be thankful for this month.

Thank you.

*****

The opening quote is from the poem, Garden Notes, from William Stanley “W.S.” Merwin’s collection, The Moon Before Morning (Copper Canyon Press). Twice a Pulitzer Prize winner, Merwin (1927-) was our 2010-11 United States Poet Laureate, and is known for writing his grief over our destruction of the natural world. Discover more about him at the Poetry Foundation. Click here to listen to him read his powerful and moving poem, Rain Light.

***

All photos copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom) except for varied thrush as noted: monarch butterfly (Danaus plexippus) on swamp milkweed (Asclepias incarnata), Nomia Meadow Farms prairie, Franklin Grove, IL; shooting star (Dodecatheon meadia), Schulenberg Prairie in May, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; white wild indigo (Baptisia alba macrophylla) with snowcap, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; late figwort (Scrophularia marilandica) in November, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL, carrion flower (probably Smilax lasioneura) in November, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL;  icy bison (Bison bison) track, Nachusa Grasslands, Franklin Grove, IL; varied thrush (Ixoreus naevius), photo courtesy John Heneghan, Kane County, IL; compass plant (Silphium laciniatum) seedhead, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; pale Indian plantain seeds (Arnoglossum atriplicifolium), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; snowmelt on Willoway Brook, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; cup plant (Silphium perfoliatum) in November, author’s backyard prairie, Glen Ellyn, IL; bench on the Schulenberg Prairie in November, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.

With grateful thanks to John Heneghen, who shared his varied thrush photo and story with me for this post, and reminded me of another reason to be thankful for the unexpected serendipities of November.

The Fault in Our (Shooting) Stars

“Cherish your science but understand it as a finite guide to the immensities of time and space…Look far. Dance with the world rather than try to explain it away. Consider the boat, not just the planks. Seize knowledge. Ask hard questions. But know, too, that your intellect is a small window and that its views can be surprisingly incomplete. Feel deeply.” — William J. Broad.

******

What a week it is shaping up to be on the tallgrass prairie! Rain and cool weather are bringing out the blooms. Small white lady’s slippers are in their full splendor. Like tiny white boats floating in a sea of grass.

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The first bright pops of hoary puccoon show up along the trail.

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Nearby, another pop of orange. An immature female eastern forktail damselfly. So common—and yet so welcome right now.  Emergence of dragonflies and damselflies has been slow this spring, due to the cool, wet weather.

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Cream wild indigo doesn’t mind the cool conditions. It jumps right into its opening act.

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The wild hyacinths add their delicate scent and good looks in washes of lavender across the prairie.

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So many beautiful prairie wildflowers blooming this week, you hardly know which way to look. And oh, the juxtapositions! This blue-eyed grass is swirled into an embrace by wood betony.

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While nearby, a butterfly conducts surveillance runs across the low grasses and forbs.

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But the literal star of the prairie stage this week is Dodecatheon meadia. The shooting star.

 

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Its pink clouds of flowers are so unusual. Look at that bloom shape!

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Now, think “tomato blossom.” Or the blooms of eggplants and potatoes. Similar, no?

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Shooting star is a tease. She beckons bumblebees with her good looks. They zip by, then pause, perhaps shocked by all that floral abundance. Buzz in for a closer look.

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What the bumblebees don’t know right away is this: Shooting star has no nectar reward. The only “fault” in this star to speak of! Nonetheless, you can see this bumblebee in the photo below stick out its tongue. Looking for nectar? Grooming itself? Or perhaps letting me know it is time to quit taking photos?

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As the bumblebee clings to the underside of the bloom, it vibrates its strong wing muscles. They emit a high-pitched buzz. This causes the pollen to be shaken out of the anthers onto the underside of the bee. The process is known as “buzz pollination” or “sonication.” Honeybees can’t do it. Their muscles aren’t strong enough.  Which emphasizes the need for native bee conservation, doesn’t it?

Can you see the pollen in the photo below? Like yellow dust.

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As the bumblebee moves on, it carries some of the pollen with it, cross-pollinating other shooting star flowers as it visits each one. Bumblebees also eat pollen, and feed to their bumblebee young.  Click on  this great video for more info that’s been helpful to me in understanding the process.

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Watch the shooting stars. Listen to what they have to tell us.  They are another reason to care about the natural world and all its creatures.

Then pause.

“Dance with the world rather than try and explain it.”

Make a wish.

*****

The opening quote from William J. Broad’s The Oracle was taken from Flora of the Chicago Region by Gerould Wilhelm and Laura Rericha.

All photos and video this week are from The Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL: (top to bottom) small white lady’s slipper orchid (Cypripedium candidum);  hoary puccoon (Lithospermum canescens); common eastern forktail damselfly (Ischnura verticalis), female; cream wild indigo (Baptisia bracteata) and bastard toadflax (Comandra umbellata); cream indigo (Baptisia bracteata) with bastard toadflax (Comandra umbellata) in the background; wild hyacinth (Camassia scilloides) blue-eyed grass (Sisyrinchium albidum) with wood betony (Pedicularis candadensis); possibly American snout butterfly (Libytheana carinenta) although the “snout” isn’t clear;  constellation of shooting stars (Dodecatheon meadia); shooting stars (Dodecatheon meadia); shooting star (Dodecatheon meadia); shooting star (Dodecatheon meadia); shooting star (Dodecatheon meadia) with bumblebee performing buzz pollination (note the tongue sticking out!); shooting star (Dodecatheon meadia) with bumblebee (unknown species) vibrating out the pollen; shooting star (Dodecatheon meadia) close up; video of shooting stars (Dodecatheon meadia) waving in the breeze.