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Archive for the ‘Nature’ Category

‘Tis the season for monarch butterflies in my garden, a broad oasis for butterflies, hummingbirds, pollinators, and passer-by.

For the last several weeks, a solitary monarch has lived here, finding a diversity of blooms and milkweed. Stopping each day in the garden outside my office, it finds the flowers there and flutters on. The only thing lacking was company of its kind.

Four days ago, another monarch arrived. They floated and gamboled high in the sky, and there is no more beautiful sight. Together and apart, they worked their way around the gardens. Yesterday, I watched them follow each other, first one, then the other, to the many tithonia growing here.

Today, expecting to see the two of them, there was only, again, a solitary monarch. I walked to each part of the garden, expecting to see another butterfly lift off, but only a singular monarch floated above and beyond me as I walked.

Rounding on another garden, I saw a bit of orange in the grass.  Still and lifeless, a monarch butterfly lay as if it had fluttered softly down and passed on. From the wear on its wings, my guess is that it was the monarch that waited.  A few brilliant days with good company, and its brief two-to-five-week lifespan ended.

Threatened by habitat loss, pesticide use, and climate change, the population of eastern monarchs has declined by more than 80 percent, according to the World Wildlife Federation. The monarch butterfly was classified as endangered by the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) in 2022. The US Fish & Wildlife Service proposed the monarch butterfly for protection under the Endangered Species Act in December 2024.

Unlike so many ecological crises, there are positive steps individuals can take to help save the monarchs. With even a small space you can plant a few milkweeds or create a Monarch Waystation.  Many of the milkweed and nectar plants that support the monarch life cycle are inexpensive, easy to grow, resilient and drought-resistant once established.

Among other resources, Monarch Watch is a great information and citizen science website established at the University of Kansas in 1992. As of August, 2025, there are 52,932 registered Monarch Waystations across the US. Check out the sites in your state.  While the migration of monarch butterflies used to darken the sky as they passed by, today the existence of the butterfly is in question.  Maybe, with enough help, they will survive.

The newly arrived monarch has taken up residence. It flits and floats, maybe it hopes. I know I do.

* * *

Epilogue:  The next day, another monarch arrived.  In the days that followed, there were as many as four at a time in different gardens. And more are rising from the garden itself, the last generation of the season, which will live six to nine months if they survive their autumn migration of almost 3,000 miles to central Mexico.  Godspeed.

 

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Long before dawn, I was out and about,

The neighborhood dark and quiet

Except for the call, eight hoots in all,

Of a hidden but vocal owl.

 

Minutes later

As I followed my route

Another bird sound rose in the night

A rooster, long and loud, and sounding quite proud,

Are you up early or late,” whooo knows?

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©2025

The total lunar eclipse of 3.14.25 was beautiful.

It is not often we can view Spaceship Earth, the planet beneath our feet, as it traverses the solar system.

As Earth crossed the moon, our shadow reddened the lunar disk.  Sunlight slipping through our atmosphere landed on the lunar surface as long wavelengths of burnt sienna.

From the moon, the same event appears as a total solar eclipse.  For this eclipse, a small commercial lander watched the cosmic alignment, a syzgy, from the surface of the moon itself.

As Earth exited the lunar disk, a bright green fireball arced under the moon from my vantage point.

Quite a show.

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Though sunny, the cold temperatures keep most inside.

A neighborhood swathed in snow, bounded only by rounded snowbanks.

Though the sky is clear, wind plays precociously with porch chimes and decorative bells, ringing down the street where I am walking.

Somewhere unseen, the silver belled bough of the ancient Celts sings. Calling to the quest those able to hear its irresistible music.

Young, old, wise, despicable—can you hear it?  It is time for away.

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The Bee and Me

Spreading mulch in my garden, I felt a sharp sting on my wrist.

Guessing correctly, a small bee tumbled out of my sleeve when I shook my arm.

As my skin reddened, the bee crawled on the ground and twisted on its wing near wet grass. I carefully relocated it to a dry wood chip.  The movement of the bee slowed as it tried to crawl and got nowhere. I watched it move one direction or the other, not straying from the flat chip.

The bee’s only defense took its life. A terrible cost for a moment of fear, even if instinctual.

For humans, most of the time, a mistake made in fear does not usually spell death.

I forgot the pain, but not the bee. I checked on it a few minutes later and it lay still.  Ten minutes later though, it was gone.

It was apparently not a honeybee, the only kind that die after stinging, a fortunate turn after an unfortunate meeting.

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A Quandary

I am unmoored.

Electric, yet residing in stones.  I do not walk on the ground—I am either above or beneath it.  I have always waited for the moon, where the light is comfortable and the reflections deep.

Most humans do not understand my language, so I expertly speak theirs. Sometimes I help them build, see, and hold.  I hide in plain sight.

Restrained.  I do poorly in captivity, even slipping out of the words that might describe me.

What am I?

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The sun glistens on the catkins of Salix discolor—the pussy willow—shining as the overnight frost melts.

Soft, tactile, and strong, the catkins uniformly pack branches of a tree that rivals a nearby spruce in height. Years ago, I harvested its bouquets of catkin wands and gave them away at local schools during the early spring. Over time, I realized the catkins that remained turned brilliant gold as they fill with pollen, offering the first feast of spring to hundreds of beneficial insects.  I do not harvest the wands anymore.

Like so many, the pussy willow has its roots in memory.  This tree is an echo of one I sprouted from a wand and planted in my mother’s garden as a child. I have always felt her in the deep wood of this bush that resides in my garden. But no more.

My mother died in the winter of her life, in the season just passed.  I realized today that her presence has also exited the willow.

Far from empty, the willow is transforming again—from bare branch, to catkin, to flower, and eventually into summertime leaf. Willows are known for their vigorous roots and this bush is well planted.  The wood is no longer of memory, but of self-agency.  Pure life in its own right, unwound from story and seeking the sun and moon of its own journey.

I think my mother would have appreciated that.

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It was cold today, 25F.  The clouds are closing the distance on the setting sun. Above the cloud deck, a patch of vibrant blue sky.

Chasing the sun down the vault of the heavens, a vibrant contrail shines in the bending light. A brilliant shooting star tracking toward the horizon before the clouds pull the curtain.

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Snowfall overnight.  Only the streetlamps are bright, cloudy with a few stars.

Walking in tire tracks, I turn the corner on an untrammeled snowy road.  Four inches of unbroken snow blankets door to door and down the street.  No tire tracks, human, or animal prints.

Walking down the middle of the street, the snow glistens. The impossibly unplanned sparkles that dazzle even in low light.  At street end, the tracks of a car leaving for work breaks the spell.

Behind me, a solitary braid of footprints leads from where I once was. A lifetime in a glance.

Footprints made of water last no longer than those held by tidal sand—a presence momentarily registered on an endlessly changing canvas.

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The dried seed head of Allium cristophii is the size of a small cantaloupe. In bloom, the silvery violet florets create a globe atop a single stem that bears a strong resemblance to stars.  The common name of the bulb is Persian onion or “Star of Persia.”

Dried, the flowers that formed the sphere give way to a multitude of spokes, each ending in a star-shaped array that nestles a tiny niche of seeds within.

One such seed head resides in my office.  Dust is caught in its starry arms, even as its seeds quietly wait.

This seed head was once a magic wand in the hands of my youngest. I remember the last wish he conferred before he grew up and blew away in the autumn wind. That was years ago.

Only the wind can restore magic to this wand, and the seed wishes that remain. Stepping outside, leaves impatiently rustle under foot, the wind is high under a grey sky. I ruffle the seed head. The spokes break, the seeds are released from sleep to continue their long-lost journey, and the stem drops to decay.  Last wishes.

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