When I saw the theme of this week’s photo challenge–Motion–I immediately thought of this photo of a bird in silhouette, at just the moment it was taking flight. I happened upon the bird unexpectedly and managed to take only one photo before it flew off. I’m still not sure what type of bird it even was. But I like that this photo captures that split second before the bird became airborne.
What is it about watching the sun set? The jewel-like colors in the sky? The feeling of being witness to that day’s curtain call? Or is it that magical feeling that comes from watching that last flash of light as the sun dips below the horizon–that blink-and-you might-miss-it moment? For me, it’s all three.
A National Geographic article on the science of sunsets says the sun sometimes appears as if it is raging against the dying of the light, but for me, the sun’s final act of the day is a moment of utter silence and absolute peace. If I can capture even a fraction of that with my camera, I feel lucky. On a recent evening on the pier at Ocean Beach in San Diego, I felt doubly lucky when I came across two brown pelicans, who, like the sun, were also calling it a night.
This is the story of a small spider in my garden. It being a cloudy and rainy morning, I grabbed my camera and headed for the yard. When it’s wet outside, colors pop and raindrops pearl on flowers and foliage—a gorgeous sight. But I only got as far as the sole remaining bloom on a Hybrid Tea Rose “Perfume Delight,” because I discovered that a small but industrious spider had established a new home there.
For perspective, see the lone bloom below (amid some Montauk Daisies), and a close-up of the spider on it.
It’s hard to see, but for a good part of the morning, that spider was busy making silk threads; the first photo below shows a thread at top left, and the other is a not-very good photo of the spider spinning (I managed to focus on the thread and a few rain drops, but alas, not on the spider…).
That rose bloom wasn’t there a couple weeks ago. The spider could only have happened upon it recently, not knowing it had chosen an ever-evolving and ultimately doomed home. Even in the few hours between this morning and this afternoon, the rose bloom unfurled a bit more, breaking some of the spider’s newly spun threads. In a couple weeks, the bloom won’t be there at all. And yet, the spider remains, a Don Quixote in disguise.
The pier in Santa Cruz, California is a favorite sunbathing spot for sea lions. Up close, you can identify the marine mammals by their ear flaps, which seals lack. But, like seals, they have whiskers. The sea lion below has a particularly fine set; even Hercule Poirot would be envious. Sea lions use their smooth and rotating whiskers to sense what’s around them. The whiskers, called vibrissae, pick up vibrations in the water or air, and are immensely useful when the sea lion is looking for food or is trying to avoid being food. Essentially, whiskers help sea lions find their way through the undercurrents of life.
Our youngest child is now in college. Looking back on 24 years of child rearing and looking ahead to a new modus vivendi, I, too, am envious of a sea lion’s whiskers.
I’ve written quite a lot about flora lately, so today it’s all about showcasing some local fauna: a few of the birds and bees (and a bug and a chipmunk) that I have had the pleasure to encounter in the past couple of months.
A cardinal in flight in our backyard…
A robin at Brookside Gardens in an optimistic (but ultimately futile) bid to score twine for its nest; a makeshift bird beach at the US Botanical Garden…
A Canada Goose guarding his territory at Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens; and a bee coming…
…and going.
And finally, a dragonfly and a chipmunk, each going about their business earlier today at Brookside.
I broke my ankle last Wednesday, but am on the mend. I was quite housebound the first couple days, and by the weekend had had enough. I slung my camera around my neck, picked up my crutches, and made it as far as the backyard. I had ordered Jon Young’s book What the Robin Knows and though it had not yet arrived, I was inspired to go outside, sit, prop my leg up, and observe the birds in our yard. Better than observing them from the sofa….
Of course, my hobbling around on crutches, dropping them, and banging them and my camera case against the picnic table greatly limited the avian activity at first, but after I settled down, the birds very slowly ventured back to inspect the bird feeders. The male cardinal was easy to spot, as was his mate; they maintained constant communication via “chip” calls, which made it easy to find them. Here is the male:
Male and female cardinals remain paired for the entire season (and possibly for several seasons, or longer) and keep tabs on one another at all times. I have not yet seen our male cardinal feed his mate, which is common during the breeding season and is meant to show the male can be a good partner and father, but am hoping to have the chance. Does the female crave a certain kind of food during this time? I don’t know–but good on the male if he goes and gets it for her.
While I was outside, another flash of red caught my eye: a male House Finch. This photo isn’t the best, but that Finch was quite speedy:
Like the Cardinal, the (male) House Finch gets its red coloring from the food it eats during the molting period (specifically from carotenoid pigments, mostly in fruits). In fact, males gravitate toward redder foods during this time. Why? Because the redder their feathers, the better–as far as the ladies are concerned. For female House Finches, there is a clear link between coloration and the male’s health and nutrition. Bright red plumage signals a male who can reproduce well, defend his territory, and be a good parent. The male House Finch in the photo looks cut out for the job.
The last bird I saw before I went back in (ok, the last bird I saw that I was able to actually take a relatively non-blurry photo of) was a Robin, the subject of the aforementioned book.
I just started reading the book last night, and will undoubtedly learn a great deal about this copper-chested visitor to our yard. But already, I know that the Robin knows far more than I do when I’m outside. It can tell the difference between dogs, cats, and lunatics on crutches who aren’t fooling anyone with their cameras. And it can communicate with the other birds. When a song- and chatter-filled interlude abruptly transitions into instant and total silence by mutual agreement of all avian parties, something is up.
As it was earlier this evening. It has been raining torrentially, but even so, there was a lot of bird activity each time the rain let up. During one of those moments, all bird sound ceased and was immediately followed by several odd but alarming squeaks that had me wondering what possible kind of bird could be making them. I looked out an upstairs window and saw a large crow in the garden, pecking at a small, young rabbit laying prostrate on the wet earth. The rabbit had made the noise. The crow saw me at the window and flew away; but as I watched, the little rabbit shuddered several times and then was absolutely still. I grabbed a crutch, hobbled down the stairs, and went outside in a futile attempt to see if there was anything I could do, but in that short (-ish) amount of time, the crow had returned and claimed its prize. I think the heavy rain had forced the rabbit out of its burrow, with tragic results.
I was sorry for the rabbit and wanted to be mad at the crow, but it was doing what it had to do. At this time of year, it, too, has mouths to feed–big and hungry ones–and so it will catch whatever it can to ensure the survival of the one brood it produces per season. Its booty can include the eggs and young of other birds– hence the total silence in our yard at the arrival of the crow. The alarm system worked well for the birds, but not for the rabbit. But that’s the circle of life.
One good thing about gardening is that while certain things need to be done throughout the year, I believe (hope) there is significant flexibility in when those things can be done (otherwise, I’m in trouble). There is one big exception to this philosophy: Easter. It is our one and only gardening deadline–an immutable date by which the garden must receive a serious makeover in order to present its best (or at least, not its worst) side to the guests who will come to our house for Easter. It helps that this excuse forces us to give the garden a really good start to the season, in compensation for any benign neglect that may be headed its way later.
This spring-cleaning mania also applies to Schnauzer 1 and Schnauzer 2–without fail, they get nice new haircuts so that our guests do not mistakenly assume we have taken to rearing sheep. After four hours of on-and-off grooming yesterday that neither they nor I appreciated very much, they now look like leaner and more refined versions of their former selves. They also look naked, but we are all getting used to it.
The garden, too, looks simultaneously neater and more naked. The protective fall leaves have now been replaced with a tidier layer of mulch. The emerging plants are still maintaining their distance from their neighbors; at at this time of year there is only a foreshadowing of the lushness of summer. But the garden’s current low-key appearance is deceptive. I planted or transplanted more than 130 plants during the past two weekends.
This is admittedly a bit nuts. I have a tendency to move plants around before they are in their fully active growth mode, if I can still move them easily. Sometimes it is for altruistic reasons (to save plants in danger of being overtaken by their neighbors) and sometimes for aesthetic ones (something else may look better there, or vice versa). But in recent days, I also replaced plants that did not survive our rough winter; filled in a new, long and narrow flower bed alongside our new-ish patio (populated entirely by some of the aforementioned transplanted plants: Montauk Daisy, roses, and Switchgrass); decommissioned the rose garden and turned it into a vegetable garden; covered a sloped area with ground cover; and installed a bird bath.
The stage is now set; time for the actors to arrive.
New (transplanted) flower bed Robin enjoying new bird bath
It’s February, which in the Northern hemisphere qualifies as being just about half way between Christmas and spring. So it’s appropriate to talk about robins right now. In some places, they are symbols of Christmas, and in others they are a sign of spring. Either way, the copper-chested birds are a cheery site to behold. Despite their burnt orange coloring, the birds were originally known as Robin Redbreasts–because 500 or so years ago in Europe, there was no name for the color orange. “Yellow-red” was as close as people got to describing that happy blend of the two primary colors. But when a certain citrus fruit became more widely eaten, the color found a new name: orange. The first recorded use of that word as a color was in 1512.
But back to robins. The color is named after the fruit, and the American Robin is named after the European one. Except that it is now clear they are not closely related. European robins are chats, while American Robins are members of the thrush family. One is smaller and rounder, while the other is longer and leaner looking. The only thing they share is a spot of orange on the breast, and even then, one bird has a small copper patch high up while the other has a longer one most of the way down. And the rest of their markings are not very similar. But early Europeans encountering these birds in North America in the 17th and 18th centuries thought they looked like robins, and named them accordingly.
I blame these early settlers for the noteworthy bout of avian befuddlement I recently experienced. I repeatedly came across a very friendly little bird during the few days we were in Ireland at Christmas and took several photos of it, all the while wondering what it was and chiding myself for not knowing. It looked almost like a little sparrow, except for that orange coloring (and the beak… and probably a number of other things). What could that bird be? Imagine my chagrin when I discovered it was a robin–how is it possible to not recognize a robin when staring straight at one? I can only say that the robin I have always known is the American one, and I was unprepared to identify the European version. I offer up these photos as evidence: first a European Robin (Erithacus rubecula), then its American counterpart (Turdus migratorius). And then I rest my case. (Not sure how much of a case it is, but I rest it anyway).
The much-hyped cicada Swarmageddon turned out to be a bust this past spring–at least in our area. Far from being a plague of biblical proportions, not a single Brood II cicada graced our yard. Local pundits suggested that perhaps the cicadas were put off by Washington, DC traffic….
But just because periodical cicadas (like the Brood IIs, which appear every 17 years) didn’t put in much of an appearance, that doesn’t mean other cicadas haven’t been going about their usual business. This morning, as I sat sipping my coffee, I glanced out the window and saw a visitor hanging on our screen.
It was an annual (or Dog-Day) cicada, and the visit was brief. Possibly because it was rushing to complete its checklist amid a rapidly ticking biological clock. Dog-Day cicadas are supposed to show up during the long, hot days of July and August. This is October–though admittedly, it’s been an unusually warm October so far. Today, temperatures are expected to hit 84 degrees F. And since it does feel like summer has dragged on and on, that Dog-Day cicada seems to be right on target.
According to folklore, these cicadas are seasonal barometers in one other way, too: once you hear them singing, you can expect the first frost of the season in six weeks. I’ll be on the lookout.
There are a variety of ways unexpected plants can crop up in your garden, but often, you can thank the wind for it. If bees play a vital role in pollination, then wind plays a similar role when it comes to seed dispersal. Think of the dandelion, the bane of many gardeners’ existence. It has developed a perfect way of ensuring a next generation by encasing its seeds in balls of fluff. What the wind doesn’t carry away (or lawnmowers cut down and disperse), young children will happily blow into the air–all but guaranteeing a new crop of the ubiquitous yellow flowers right in the middle of your lawn, or your neighbors’.
The Butterfly Weed plant disperses seeds in a similar fashion, but its seeds reside in pods that dry out and then crack open, allowing the feathery parachutes to travel hither and yon (if the Milkweed Bugs that love the seeds and tissue of Butterfly Weed plants don’t get to all the seeds first…). Luckily, there are many, many seeds to go around. And then, it’s up to wind, luck, and Mother Nature. In the bottom two photos, the Butterfly Weed seed parachutes have gotten stuck on 1) a Verbena Bonariensis and 2) a spider web near our brick staircase. I hold out more hope for the former’s prospects than for the latter’s.
Perennial Pastimes 