March 11, 2016 by Beth

Early Spring Serenade

A male northern cardinal (Cardinalis cardinalis) sings from his springtime perch.

I like the silence of frosty mornings, but I also miss the music of birds during the winter. Most mornings for the past three weeks, our resident cardinal has greeted the sunrise — cloudy or clear — with song. At first he sang one short burst of bright song. Over the next week, it grew to several minutes of song at dawn and another round later in the morning. Basking in Tuesday’s sunshine and 70°, he sang many times during the day. Later that same day, a mourning dove cooed in a spruce tree, chickadees added their lovely two-note calls, and an American robin joined the serenade with its caroling. However, all went silent when a Cooper’s hawk sailed across the backyard and into my neighbor’s silver maple!

Why do birds sing more frequently in the spring? There’s still much to learn, but the thinking is that the increase in daylight triggers a bird’s thyroid-stimulating hormone (TSH). TSH steps up the production of sex hormones to prepare birds for the mating season. A big part of successful reproduction is attracting a mate and maintaining a breeding territory — birdsong plays a major role in both activities.

The four songsters mentioned above were year-round residents in the Twin Cities this past winter. Soon migrants, such as warblers, red-winged blackbirds, catbirds and others will return to add their harmony to the chorus. In fact, I saw my first red-winged blackbird of the season perched on a cattail in a small pond yesterday. Regardless of its purpose, the return of beautiful birdsong is one of spring’s finest gifts.

March 5, 2016 by Beth

Late-Winter Beauty

Star-like snow crystals add beauty to common milkweed (Asclepia syriaca).

Soft, wet snow falls in early March. White blankets the garden and lawn, outlines tree limbs in frosty ice, and meltwater gurgles in downspouts. It’s a peaceful scene — and what’s most beautiful to my eye is the common milkweed in our garden. All winter long, north winds shook the dead, dry stalks and tugged at the pods until the seeds ballooned into the wind on their silky parachutes. A few seeds float free each day, but most still ride the breeze tethered to their pods. Minute feathery snow crystals etch the silken strands like starry sequins on nature’s beautiful gown.

Though the stalks are tattered, rough and hollow, soon spring-green shoots will pop through the soil to grow new plants and nourish bees, butterflies and hummingbirds. But for today, I’ll enjoy the crystal-covered seeds and the snowy scene knowing it will soon give way to spring’s warmth.

December 25, 2015 by Beth

A Rose E’er Blooming

“Lo, how a Rose e’er blooming from tender stem hath sprung! Of Jesse’s lineage coming as seers of old have sung.” — Isaiah 11:1*

May you know peace and hope during this season of Light.

*(“Es ist ein Ros entsprungen” , Speyer Gesangbuch, 1599. Translated by Theodore Baker in 1894.)

December 21, 2015 by Beth

Winter Solstice

It hasn’t seemed like winter this December; more like a mild November with moody skies, soaking rains and even a few thunderstorms. What little snow fell, melted into the unfrozen ground. But the sun tells the truth as it rides low on the southern horizon. I always look at winter solstice (10:48 p.m. CST on December 21) as a milestone achieved: We’ve reached the time of peak darkness for the winter. And happily, though sunrise is still getting later, sunset began to lengthen on December 10th! We celebrate solstice with extra candles on the dinner table, a glass of wine, and Celtic Christmas music.

I look for the understated, sometimes harsh beauty of winter, and I like the extra hours of moon-watching. Yet, I impatiently wait for the seeds, bulbs, perennials and tiny creatures that rest in the dark earth to reawaken. In the meantime, I will try to appreciate the slate skies and spent plants that add their own stark loveliness to the winter months.

The mid-December moon is often visible during the day.

Joe-Pye weed (Eutrochium dubium) seedheads.

Flame grass (Miscanthus sinensis ‘purpurascens’) seed heads and leaves.

Fluffy, soft goldenrod (Solidago) seeds.

A few seeds still cling to the soft, empty cup of a milkweed pod (Aesclepias syriaca).

November 26, 2015 by Beth

Gray-Day Gratitude, Bright Autumn Colors

One morning last week, I walked in our garden between bouts of rain. I wanted to enjoy the warm, mild air before a cold front rolled in that evening. Chipmunks had retired to their underground dens, birds were quiet, and I saw no insects. The exposed wet earth in the gardens smelled almost as fresh and pungent as in spring. Oregano and sage still scented our little herb garden. (I miss the aroma of fresh herbs so much during the winter.) A few bright patches of color accented the beige, russet and brown of mid-November, tiny remnants of a beautiful summer and autumn. I am so grateful for gentle autumn days and memories of a lovely, bountiful growing season. What nature and garden memories bring gratitude to your mind and heart?

Fan-shaped gingko leaves fell much later than the maple leaves.

Fan-shaped gingko (Gingko biloba) leaves drop much later than many other leaves.

American woodbine (Parthenocissus inserta) fruit is a winter treat for some types of songbirds and small mammals.

Boston ivy (Parthenocissus tricuspidata) fruit and leaves.

Moss in the north-facing garden of our backyard.

Moss in a north-facing garden of our backyard.

Common milkweed (Aesclepias syriaca) releases it silky seeds.

A tiny red maple seedling in the backyard.

A tiny red maple (Acer rubrum) seedling in the backyard.

Beads of rain adorn daylily fronds (Hemerocallis).

Wild grape (Vitis riparia) leaves etched in maroon.

Raindrops on crimson barberry (Berberis) fruit.

The beauty of a single woodbine leaf in the empty garden.

The simple beauty of a single Boston ivy leaf in the empty garden.

An empty robin’s nest and red maple leaf tucked into a dwarf blue spruce (Picea pungens).

Ornamental kale (Brassica oleracea) grows in a sunny spot.

November 7, 2015 by Beth

Late-Autumn Insects

Last week, the coming winter teased us with snow flurries mixed in with the rain. But, during the first week of November, the temperature rebounded to the 70s. The breeze is gentle, the afternoon sun is hot and a few insects are active in some sun-warmed patches of our backyard.

On the garden’s last purple coneflower, a yellow-green, spotted beetle, similar to a ladybug at first glance, nibbles on the coneflower’s center. It is a spotted cucumber beetle (Diabrotica undecimpunctata). And, though it’s a garden pest, it won’t survive the Minnesota winter, so I let it stay. It looks beautiful on the deep magenta bloom.

Spotted cucumber beetle (Diabrotica undecimpunctata) on a purple coneflower.

Across the yard in another sunny spot, bright red insects huddle together on a common milkweed pod. They include three different developmental stages, or instars, of the same insect, the large milkweed bug, (Oncopeltus fasciatus). They use a tubelike mouth to inject digestive enzymes into the pod and then suck out the partially digested plant material. Because they eat milkweed, they have the same toxicity found in monarchs and other insects that dine on the plant. When I first noticed them a few weeks ago, I thought they were red aphids until I spotted an adult on the pod. Over time, they began to grow larger, develop black markings, and become darker red. Like the spotted cucumber beetle mentioned above, the large milkweed bug is migratory and those still here won’t survive our northern winter.

Early developmental instars of large milkweed bug (Oncopeltus fasciatus).

Large milkweed bug in developmental stages.

Large milkweed bug in several developmental stages on a common milkweed pod.

The orange shells of Asian lady beetles (Harmonia Axyridis) glow where they’ve settled on the sun-warmed brick of our house and on a few hardy garden plants. Unlike the insects mentioned above, these beetles survive the Minnesota winter. They were introduced into the southern United States in the mid-1900s to help control agricultural pests and first appeared in Minnesota in the 1990s, according to University of Minnesota records. To some people they’re pests because the beetles often find a way inside in the autumn. But, they also eat aphids found on trees, in gardens and on agricultural crops. The easiest way to distinguish Asian lady beetles from native species is by an “M” or “W” mark (depending on the viewing angle) on the thorax between the head and abdomen. (More about Asian and native ladybird beetles in another post.)

Asian lady beetle (Harmonia Axyridis) on goldenrod.

Asian lady beetle on ‘Henry Kelsey’ rose.

September 2, 2015 by Beth

Rainy Evening Gift

The backyard was lush and green after the week’s heavy rain. The air felt chilly and damp as I picked up windfalls from our beacon apple tree. Soaked, bedraggled bumble bees and long-horned bees clung to Joe-Pye blossoms and the undersides of leaves. Only a few crickets chirped in the unusually cool August evening air. As I reached into the garden to pull some weeds, I felt a fluttering against my fingers and heard the slightest rustle of wings. Barely grasping my fingertips was a beautiful green dragonfly —a common green darner. Its aqua-green thorax and dark maroon abdomen hinted that it was probably a female or juvenile. I thought it was injured, or perhaps dying. Gently, I held my hand next to some sedum plants. The dragonfly struggled onto the flower buds and I left it for the night.

Common Green Darner (Anax junius).

In the morning, the green darner was gone. I found no scattered wings or chitin, no other remains in the garden to indicate that it had been eaten. I believe that the sun’s warmth revived it. Since then, I’ve glimpsed a large dragonfly zooming over the garden on several different days; perhaps it is the same one. I hope that it lives to make the long migration flight south to the Gulf Cost in September.

August 13, 2015 by Beth

Variety in an Urban Milkweed Patch

Most of us learned about the special relationship between monarch butterflies and milkweed plants when we were young children — and just about anytime I look in our garden, monarchs sail among the milkweed. Females lay eggs on the underside of leaves and monarchs of both genders sip the plant’s sweet nectar. But milkweed isn’t just for monarchs! It also provides a place for many other creatures: A few that are immune to its toxicity eat it; others drink its nectar, depend on it for reproduction, watch for a meal, or simply rest. Here’s a sampling of critters living in our backyard milkweed in early August. What’s in your milkweed patch??

The adult red milkweed beetle (Tertaopes tetrophthalmus) eats milkweed leaves, buds and flowers.

The adult red milkweed beetle (Tetraopes tetrophthalmus) eats milkweed leaves, buds and flowers. Its larvae eat the plant’s roots.

The Large Milkweed Bug (Oncopeltus fasciatus) eats the seed pods, stems and leaves of milkweed.

A hover fly or flower fly (Syrphidae).

An eastern yellowjacket (Vespula maculifrons) hunts for small insect pests to eat.

Honey bees (Apis millifera) favor the sweet milkweed nectar.

Bumble bees (Bombus) of several different species are attracted to milkweed blossoms.

Red admiral butterflies (Vanessa atalanta) are attracted to the milkweed's nectar.

A red admiral butterfly (Vanessa atalanta) sips milkweed nectar.

I never tire of seeing monarchs (Danaus plexipus) nectar on milkweed blossoms.

I never tire of seeing monarchs (Danaus plexippus) nectar on milkweed blossoms.

Insects aren’t the only critters to favor milkweed nectar. Ruby-throated hummingbirds (Archilochus colubris) frequently drink it, too.

September 30, 2014 by Beth

Autumn Meadowhawk

The late afternoon September sun is warm and soothing. Cicadas whine loudly and a monarch butterfly nectars in our patch of sweet Joe-Pye. But another garden critter catches my eye this afternoon: the yellow-legged meadowhawk dragonfly.

Adult male autumn meadowhawks are red with few or no markings on the abdomen.

Also known as autumn meadowhawks (Sympetrum vicinum), their bodies flash gem-like red, orange and amber in the sun. Perched on daylily stalks, balloon flower seed pods and hosta stems, each dragonfly swivels its head watching for flies, small bees and wasps, and other soft-bodied insects.

Adult autumn meadowhawks are present from August into early November in Minnesota. The species is common across much of the United States and southern Canada, and often is seen in yards and gardens. Their yellow or brownish legs set them apart from other types of meadowhawks, which have black or dark-striped legs. They also have minimal or no black marks on the abdomen.

Females are distinguished by the ovipositor visible near the end of the abdomen.

When I see a meadowhawk flash in the garden, I think of the ancient history of these creatures. Scientists believe that early dragonflies (Protodonata) first inhabited Earth 300 million years ago. They speculate that Earth’s warmer temperatures, and the atmosphere’s higher oxygen content, contributed to insects growing larger than today. Fossils show that some ancient dragonflies had a wingspan of two feet. Today, most of the larger dragonflies have a wingspan of two to five inches, and meadowhawks are smaller yet at about one inch. What they lack in size they make up for in the sparkle of sun on their transparent wings and the jeweled designs of their bodies. And, after watching a meadowhawk grind up a small bee in its jaws, I’m glad they’ve evolved into smaller predators!

Sunlight captures the beauty of this meadowhawk's wings. The ovipositor and the light red abdomen with faint black markings identifies it as a female autumn meadowhawk.

Sunlight captures the beauty of this meadowhawk’s wings. The ovipositor, yellowish legs and the light red abdomen with faint black markings identify it as a female.

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.

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