All Things New (SWF)

Setting Sun,
December 31, 2008

Perhaps it is the white cast left on the fading grass this frosty January morning. Or the crispness of the day that follows a cloudless night--and sparkles under bright, clean rays.
The newness of this year is almost palatable.

Rising Sun,
January 1, 2009

Like white sneakers, saved for the first day of school. Treasured for their promise of another beginning.
While last year’s, scuffed and worn, are moved to the back of the closet.

I remember fussing over them.
Loving them for being unmarked and wholly new.
Trying to preserve their whiteness.
Fearing the first smudge from another.

Until they, with each day, slowly became like all the others.
With stories told by the marks they bore.

This morning,
wearing white sneakers again.

Frosty Field

Crystals on Teasel

All photos enlarge with a click.

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Lost Light

Teasel
Morning Light

Evening light has all but left us.
I step out from work, now, into darkness, ever more thankful for the morning’s glow.
My time.

To catch a sun creeping across the field of teasel.
Tones of brown set ablaze, mist rising.
Caught on the edge of the high barn roof.
Then tripping, face-first, upon the old brick house,
beyond the gravel drive.

First Light on Barn

Autumn Sun

From this spot at dusk, we hear an owl,
from the depths of the blackened woods, calling.
His voice, a new cry in the night.
An invitation into his world.

In the dark, this year, I will go there.
My small light, where there is none.

After years of hearing Barred Owls in our woods, we now hear a new call. The hissing screech, that could be either a Barn Owl or juvenile Great Horned Owl. What better way to appreciate the darkness of fall and winter evenings, than to become better acquainted with our owls.

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Teasel

I like teasel, though I probably should not.
Its spiny stem and tall spiked heads stand in our field year ‘round—turning woody and brown as summer fades.
Rising head and shoulders above all others, its form, a constant and easily recognized silhouette.

Brought here from Europe in the 1700s, teasel is now considered invasive in North America, often displacing the other native field flowers and growing in large, dense stands.
But the wildlife it draws to its unusual character I love—from the nectaring butterflies of summer to the seed-eating birds of fall and winter.



A band of tiny light purple flowers opens around the center of each spiked oval head, then spreads in a wave outward, as new flowers open toward the top and bottom, creating 2 rings.
They paint a lavender haze over the rising green tips of goldenrod.
And catch the heavy heads of Queen Anne.




Yes, I like teasel quite a lot.
It seems I'm not the only one.

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Got Milk(weed)?

Monarch caterpillar on milkweed

At last--the discovery of a monarch caterpillar! And although the field stands full of milkweed plants, this single caterpillar is all we can find. The milkweed flowers have turned to good-sized seed pods, in fact--soon to blow away in the wind.
There are no butterflies here. And no wonder--no food.

But, across the field the teasel has burst into blossom--delicate purple flowers on spiny towering stalks.
What a welcome sight--if you're a thirsty butterfly and arrived too late for a milkweed dinner!

Eastern Tiger Swallowtail

Silver Spotted Skipper


Clearwing Moth

Monarch