August 10, 2014 by Beth

Hummingbird Clearwing Moth

Clearwing hummingbird moths favor native monarda in our garden.

Hummingbird clearwing moths favor native monarda in our garden.

Next time you think you see a small hummingbird zip around your garden, take a closer look — it just might be a hummingbird clearwing moth. People usually think of moths as nocturnal creatures attracted to lights. But clearwing moths are colorful daytime visitors to flowers. Only about half the size of a hummingbird, this moth has a thick, heavy body in comparison to many moths, large, clear wings with reddish-brown borders, and a long proboscis for sipping nectar. In our garden, they seem to prefer monarda or bee balm, in particular the native variety (Monarda fistulosa). I’ve also seen them sip nectar from garden phlox, petunias and common milkweed.

Clearwing hummingbird moths are white underneath and have pale-colored legs.

Hummingbird clearwing moths are white underneath and have pale-colored legs.

Two species of clearwing moth are common in the eastern half of North America: the snowberry clearwing (Hemaris diffinis) and the hummingbird clearwing (Hemaris thysbe). The two species are easy to tell apart because (H. diffinis) mimics bumblebees with primarily yellow and black coloration and black legs. (H. thysbe) is typically olive with maroon or rust, and the legs are yellowish or pale-colored. A third variety, (Hemaris thetis) lives primarily in western North America.

The caterpillars of both clearwing moths are green, although sometimes the hummingbird clearwing’s can be reddish. Both species’ caterpillars have a horn on one end. The hummingbird clearwing caterpillar is sprinkled with tiny white dots and the horn is bluish. It feeds on honeysuckle, cherry, plum, snowberry and European viburnum plants. The snowberry clearwing caterpillar has black spots on its sides and the horn is black with a yellow base. Common host plants for this caterpillar are honeysuckle, snowberry and dogbane. Cocoons of both species overwinter in leaf litter on the ground and become adult moths the following spring.

August 5, 2014 by Beth

Harebells

Harebells grow on the bank of the Snake River in east central Minnesota.

I first saw harebell flowers as a young teen hiking the north shore of Lake Superior in Minnesota. They grew out of a tiny crevice in the lichen-covered basalt slabs along the lake, and the delicate blossoms mirrored the violet-blue water on that sunny midsummer day. Next to them, in the shallow depressions in the rock, were pools of water in which tiny tadpoles swam. I was enchanted by all of it. Years later when my family built a cabin near the Snake River in Pine County, MN, I was delighted to find harebells growing on the riverbank and along the woodland edges.

Harebells are also known as thimbles, bluebells of Scotland, heath bells and bluebells.

Harebells are also known as thimbles, bluebells, bluebells of Scotland, wind bells and heath bells.

Harebells (Campanula rotundifolia) are native to the northern regions of the United States, Europe and Asia. They grow on slender upright stalks ranging in height between 6 and 20 inches. Narrow grass-like leaves cover most of the stalk; round leaves at the base of the plant often die before the flowers bloom. Milky sap in the stems is another identifying characteristic. The delicate bells begin blooming in June and continue through the summer. We usually see a modest second bloom in the fall. Besides being beautiful, harebells are a source of nectar to many species of bees during the summer and I’ve noticed bumblebees frequenting them during the second bloom in autumn. Other common names for harebells include: thimbles, wind bells, heath bells, bluebells and bluebells of Scotland.

Harebells blossom from June through summer, and often bloom again in autumn.

July 3, 2014 by Beth

Gray Catbird: Mimic Extraordinaire

He’s the musical sort. He sings with the robins and cardinals; not just his song, but theirs, too. First he mimicked the robins’ morning song, then he imitated the cardinals and red-eyed vireos. He blended their calls into his own unique arrangement of a song with many repeated phrases. I suspected a gray catbird (Dumetella carolinensis) when I heard his “meow”-like call. Catbirds skulk around in thickets and tangled hedges, so are often hard to see (I haven’t been able to photograph him). Later, the cardinal pair that frequents our backyard chased him out of the arbor vitae hedge and I spotted him.

He’s a fine looking charcoal-gray bird, about the size of a small American robin, with a black cap and a rusty patch under his tail. Like brown thrashers and mockingbirds, gray catbirds have the ability to imitate the songs and calls of other birds, creatures and even machines. Female catbirds sing too, but more softly and infrequently than their mates.

After declaring his territory for three or four days, he began a nighttime serenade, which he continued nightly for three weeks. At his most vocal, he started singing shortly past midnight. His song alone filled the night air and varied from melodious bird calls, to squeaks, whistles and other sharp, clear sounds. He sings to defend his territory and to attract a mate. Most recently, he’s added part of the American goldfinch’s call to his repertoire. He may mimic fragments of other avian songs too, but I am only certain of the four I’ve mentioned. He often returns to the hedge to sing at dawn, though no longer with the same intensity and frequency.

Does it matter that catbirds imitate other birds’ songs and calls? The theory, according to Greg Budney, audio curator at Cornell’s Macauley Library, is that the greater intricacy of a male catbird’s song demonstrates his greater experience with life and survival — and therefore makes him a stronger candidate for a good mate. There’s an interesting, short video that features a catbird mimicking several songs of other bird species and a chorus frog. Budney identifies each imitated song and briefly explains his theory.

I’m sure our catbird’s a fine fellow and mate — but I just appreciate hearing his joyful noise in the garden. Anyone else have catbirds in their yard, garden or woods?

June 27, 2014 by Beth

Carrot Wasp

A slender female carrot wasp nectars in the early evening sun.

One recent evening, a thread-thin burst of movement caught my eye in our garden. It was a wasp — slender, agile and fast as it nectared in the early evening sun; and unlike most wasps, it held its abdomen at an unusual vertical angle. It was too thin and small to fit into the familiar wasp categories. After searching several resources, I identified it: a carrot wasp in the family Gasteruptiidae spp. (There are 15 different species in North America.) Adults feed on the nectar and pollen of plants in the carrot family, especially wild carrots and parsnips.

Carrot wasps have enlarged back legs and red-orange bands on the abdoment.

Carrot wasps have enlarged areas on the back legs and the female has a long ovipositor.

Carrot wasps are a type of parasitic wasp. Rather than building a colony, or their own individual cells, they seek out the nests of other solitary bees and wasps, such as digger bees and mud daubers. A female carrot wasp punctures a cell of the other bee or wasp’s nest, inserts her long ovipositor into the cell and lays her egg. Depending on the type of carrot wasp, when its egg hatches, the larva will eat the host bee/wasp’s larva, eat the larva’s food, or do both!

Besides the abdomen being held vertically, other identifying characteristics include a visible, prominent neck, a black body with reddish-orange bands on the abdomen, and enlarged areas on the back legs. These wasps are most common during June, July and August.

June 17, 2014 by Beth

Wild Columbine

The first spring that we lived in our home, a large patch of wild columbine (Aquilegia canadensis) bloomed outside the back porch. The red-orange and yellow blooms of wild columbine dominate woodlands and rocky areas of Minnesota and eastern North America in early June. Also called Canada columbine, or eastern red columbine, these native wild flowers are a favorite source of nectar for hummingbirds and bees.

Canada columbine (Aquilegia canadensis) is native to eastern North America.

The entire patch in our yard was native Canada columbine. That summer, I planted a small area of blue and white Colorado blue columbine (Aquilegia caerula), native to the western United States, in a different section of the yard.

Over time, nature and the bees produced lovely hybrid flowers, ranging from dark purple, to violet, a cranberry color, and pale, lemony pink. Individual columbine do not live a long time, so the colorful hybrids usually last three or four years. However, Canada columbine produce dozens of shiny black seeds that keep the original native wildflower growing abundantly. The seeds often take root in small cracks in our stone garden wall, similar to the rocky habitat they favor in nature. But they also pop up in many different spots around the backyard in both sun and shade.

A cranberry-hued hybrid columbine — thanks to the bees.

A lavender hybrid of Canada columbine and Rocky Mountain columbine.

A violet hybrid of Canada columbine and Colorado blue columbine.

The scientific and common names for this plant reflect the blossom in two different ways. Aquilegia, from the Latin term for eagle, represents the flower as the talons of an eagle. I like the common name columbine, which is derived from Columba, the Latin for dove. Each section of the flower looks like the outline of a dove — from its tiny head, down through the oblong body and pointed tail. The entire blossom resembles a group of five doves.

The “five doves” form the blossom and give columbine its common name.

Whether you see the eagle or the dove, columbine is a beautiful spring wild flower and an important source of nectar for insects and hummingbirds. It also adapts well to gardens, especially rock and wall gardens. The colorful flower, scalloped foliage and large seed pods make it an interesting plant for much of the spring and summer.

The sticky green seed pod will ripen an split open to reveal shiny black seeds.

The sticky green seed pod will ripen and split open to release shiny black seeds.

May 31, 2014 by Beth

Our “Biodiverse” Lawn

Our “lawn” would be outlawed in most of the Twin Cities’ tonier suburbs. But living in the city allows for a little more variety. Twenty years ago we sodded our yard after building an addition. The grass was perfect — pure, uniform blades of healthy green. We kept it that way for a couple of years, then quit using chemicals when our son was old enough to play in the yard.

First a few common violets dotted the grass with their subtle, delicate blooms. Then dandelions showed their bright heads —miniature globes of sunshine that blossomed into balls of fluff. Our son loved to blow the fluff, watch the seeds dance on the breeze and settle into the grass (to grow the following spring).

Canada violets and common blue violets grow in our backyard.

White clover (Trifolium repens), Canada violets (Viola canadensis) and common blue violets (Viola sororia) grow in our backyard lawn.

Canada violets (Viola canadensis) and dandelions (Taraxacum officinale).

Over the years, seeds from garden Siberian squill and striped squill spilled out into the lawn during heavy rains. They popped up in all parts of the backyard along with three other species of violets. These spring blooms are lovely and welcome, but the plantain, chickweed and crabgrass that appear later in the summer? Not so much.

Siberian squill bloom in the grass in April, but quickly disappear for the rest of the growing season.

Siberian squill (Scilla siberica) bloom in the grass in April, but quickly disappear for the rest of the growing season.

One afternoon our neighbor, Steve, an environmental engineer, stopped to chat while I was digging out dandelions. I bemoaned the state of our lawn. Steve looked at it for a minute, then said that he thinks of it as a biodiverse lawn. The variety of blooms, though they are “weeds” in the eyes of most people, provide a great source of nectar to native bees and other pollinators. The insects and worms provide food for birds, chipmunks and many small critters. In comparison, Steve said, our former uniform lawn was a “dead zone” with little life beyond the non-native grass.

I still miss our perfect lawn when I look at the lush, tidy, green grass on our block, and every summer I’m tempted to use chemicals to restore ours. But, I ignore that urge and instead, we mow the “grass” down to a short patch of green turf that is alive with birds, insects and other creatures — and that also looks acceptable to our neighbors!

May 5, 2014 by Beth

Early Spring

Spring is slow in coming this year; but over the past two weeks, the awakening of life has softened the dingy, post-winter landscape. Summer bird migrants add their songs to the morning chorus; maples, Canada cherries and other trees bud; chipmunks dart about in the yard; and the early spring bulbs begin to bloom — among them my favorite: the beautiful blue squill.

Siberian Squill (Scilla siberica).

Striped Squill (Puschkinis scilloides).

Crocus buds (Crocus species ‘Ladykiller’).

Crocus blossoms (Crocus spp 'ladykiller')

Crocus blossoms (Crocus species ‘Ladykiller’)

Red Maple flowers (Acer rubrum).

Canada Cherry (Prunus virginiana ‘Canada Red’) leaves and flower buds.

White-throated Sparrow (Zonotrichia albicollis) © T.M. Murray 2014; used with permission.

White-throated sparrows are migrating north and add a melodious, clear whistling to early spring mornings. Once you’ve heard the song, it’s easy to remember. Many people liken it to the phrase, “My Sweet Canada, Canada, Canada”. This sparrow has a bright white throat, a black-and-white striped crown and a bright yellow spot between the eyes and bill. Listen to and watch a white-throated sparrow whistle its lovely, plaintive song.

Eastern chipmunks (Tamias striatus) are out of their dens.

Eastern Chipmunks (Tamias striatus) are out of their winter dens.

American Robins (Turdus migratorius) are building nests.

Newly opened Glory-of-the-Snow (Chinodoxa).

A patch of Striped Squill and Siberian Squill in our garden.

April 18, 2014 by Beth

Hermit Thrush Visitors

A hermit thrush eats berries from our patio planter.

Recent strong winds brought a pair of migrating hermit thrushes to our backyard. Their brown backs, spotted breasts and rust-colored tails camouflaged them well among the leaves littering the gardens and against our winter-weary lawn. They plucked berries from a planter on the patio, picked in the grass under the suet and thistle feeders, and turned over leaves in the garden in search of food.

Cousins to American robins, eastern bluebirds and several other thrushes, hermit thrushes may be the best singers of the family. Their song is flute-like, liquid, melodious. In Minnesota, these songsters spend the summer in the north-central and northeastern regions of the state. It is rare to hear a hermit thrush sing during migration, and over the many years that migrants have rested in our yard, I’ve heard their ethereal singing only once — when a bird perched in a tall arbor vitae and sang on a sunny morning. Watch and listen to a hermit thrush sing its haunting song.

A rust-colored tail helps identify the hermit thrush.

Some thrush species can be tough to tell apart because of the spotted breast and brown coloring shared by many. But, if the bird has a rusty tail that it flicks up and down, you’ll know you’ve likely spotted a hermit thrush!

April 12, 2014 by Beth

Spring’s First Green

Melting snow waters and revives a tiny patch of moss.

Early last week, I searched the few exposed patches of dirt for signs of bulbs pushing through the soil. No sign of bulbs in the north-facing garden, yet. Instead, I found the first bright green of the season: An oasis of moss tucked beneath a little cavern of melting snow under our spruce tree. Threaded with tiny seeds and spruce needles, the moss was the golden green of spring and droplets of melting snow refreshed it. Lovely, restful green; a beautiful, hopeful color after months of black and white.

March 17, 2014 by Beth

Morning Song

Each morning between 6:00 and 6:30, a male cardinal perches in the arbor vitae at the back of our yard and sings in the predawn darkness. His melodious whistles serenade his mate, define his territory and bring cheer to the cold morning.

When the sun is higher, he whistles a more intricately patterned call. Soon his mate comes to feed at the suet brick while he watches from the cedars, a red ornament decorating the green fronds. His lady is softly colored in olive and brown highlighted with pinkish red. I haven’t heard her song yet this year, but female cardinals are able to sing as lovely as males, and soon she will join him — especially when they begin nesting, to communicate location and the need for food.

This cardinal pair has nested in our hedge for the past two summers.

Why does the sight of a cardinal bring joy to so many people? Cardinals are common, year-round residents throughout most of Minnesota, the eastern United States and Mexico. Yet, spotting a flash of red in a tree top, at a feeder, or in a garden is always delightful. For me, it is because cardinals sing when most other birds are silent — on frigid late-January mornings and sweltering late-summer afternoons; and because, most summers, they raise a family in the hardwood hedge in our backyard; and, simply for their red brilliance against the winter landscape or among the purple and gold in our September garden. A common bird, perhaps; uncommonly beautiful, most certainly.

Nature, Garden, Life

Author: Beth