Three days ago the yard was leafing out in anticipation of spring.
That was before winter tightened its icy grip.
I don’t expect the honeysuckle will sustain any permanent damage.
The hydrangea should also survive.
Because winter can’t hold on forever. The ice and snow will melt.
Soon I’ll be able to pry open the frozen gate and let spring edge a few steps further into the yard.
Today’s winter storm should bring nothing more than miserably cold rain and a few flurries to our area, but I decided to stay inside anyway. I dug out my digital to-do list, pulled on my favorite socks, and settled in for an afternoon of computer work. Mid-way through organizing my 2014 photo archive, I opened a forgotten folder and found a forgotten cache of summer.
These images don’t make my house warmer, and they won’t melt snow or ice, but they reminded me that summer is only a few months away.
It won’t be too long before spring rustles in — waking the yard’s flowers, urging birds to nest, and breathing life into new generations of insects.
Soon, sooner than February ever lets me imagine, it will be time to put away my favorite socks, turn off the heat, and open all the windows.
Soon…
This summer’s butterfly shortage is not reflected in the yard’s bee activity. Early in May carpenter bees began arriving, followed quickly by mixed swarms of bumble bees, mason bees, mining bees, and sweat bees.
At first I tried to identify the bees in my photos, but my limited taxonomy skills were no match for the maze of overlapping body sizes, varying wing-vein patterns, and individual nesting strategies. (This article from National Geographic discusses, in part, the difficulties of bee identification.) Now I’m content to file all of my bee photos in a single “bee” folder, organized by date.
None of the yard’s bees seem to mind being photographed, even from very close range. I’ve spent hours, this summer, crawling through patches of clover and kneeling beside the flower beds.
In all those hours I haven’t seen a single honeybee, which isn’t too surprising given the current crisis of Colony Collapse Disorder. Beekeepers have experienced devastating losses as their hives fail, and the dwindling honeybee population is a potential disaster for parts of the agricultural industry. Pollination is a key step between flower and fruit, between planting and harvesting. For some of our favorite fruits and vegetables, an orchard or field with active bee pollination produces increased quality (and quantity) at harvest. Take away the bees and the harvest suffers.
Fortunately, research indicates that solitary bees and bumble bees are excellent pollinators, especially when they share territories. (This blog post at Charismatic Minifauna offers a summary of research findings in blueberry crops. And a few miles from the yard, researchers are following strawberry crops pollinated by mason bees.)
In the past, I’ve been reluctant to add bee houses to the yard, fearing stings. This summer’s bee hours have quieted that fear, and I’m planning to add at least two bee houses over the winter. These will provide nesting spots for mason bees and leaf-cutter bees, either in pre-drilled blocks of wood or bundles of reeds. (Here’s an article with instructions for building bee houses: Native Bees, Solitary Bees, and Wild Bees: What are they? [PDF].)
Hopefully next summer I’ll spend even more hours crawling through the clover and kneeling beside the flower beds…
It’s been a slow year for butterflies in the yard. (And in other yards, as noted in the comments section on this recent post.) There were no butterflies at all in May, and in June the only visitors were a few skittish Gray Hairstreaks. They took brief sips from the hydrangea, then flew away in search of better nectar.
As July grew hotter and hotter, I caught glimpses of larger butterflies fluttering high overhead, but they never stopped in the yard. Our new butterfly bush bloomed in vain, and the praying mantis lurking among its branches eventually moved into the nearby irises.
Finally, late in July, I spotted a Painted Lady.
A skipper arrived the same day, the first of an unexpected abundance of skippers. In past years these small butterflies were rare in the yard, but they seem to find the butterfly bush irresistible. Now I see them almost daily.
I haven’t been able to identify any of the skippers in my photos. The closest I can get is to say they all fall into the sub-group of “closed wing skippers.” As always, please comment if you can confirm or correct my identifications!
The only other butterfly I’ve seen in the yard was a faded, torn Common Buckeye. I wondered if its wing damage indicated long, perilous journeys or a single stormy event…
While each new visitor is a hopeful sign, I’m puzzled by the conspicuous absence of Commas and Question Marks, Red Admirals, Viceroys, sulfurs, and swallowtails. Others are puzzled, too. A short internet search found several articles detailing decreased sightings of butterflies in eastern North Carolina and Virginia:
Most sources blame the long, cold winter and associated rain, and some cite additional factors such as habitat loss and pesticide use. Whatever the cause, I hope it is temporary. In the world’s Field Guide to Small Joys, butterflies fill a uniquely delightful chapter.
In May, the yard’s hummingbird hopes suffered a setback when a family of house finches plucked the honeysuckle’s early blooms.
But the honeysuckle recovered quickly, and by the end of June there were enough blooms to attract renewed attention.
The salvia also bloomed steadily through June and July, adding a second source of nectar.
Now I see hummingbirds daily. They zip through the yard at reasonably predictable intervals, one or two an hour, and I occasionally find them resting high in the wax myrtle.
If I stretch the camera’s zoom to its limit, I am able to catch several frames before they become suspicious of my fixed attention and clicking shutter.
When two individuals cross paths, fierce and noisy bouts of aerial combat break out, with both birds squeaking rapidly as they dive and swerve. They are too fast for my camera during these skirmishes.
For that matter, they are too usually fast while feeding. These photos represent several hours of stalking. (I suspect most of my photos feature a single individual who has established a repetitive feeding pattern.)
Whether one bird or many, I hope the visits continue. I’m looking forward to a few more months of summer — a few more months of hot, humid afternoons in which to hone my hummingbird reflexes.
Rae Spencer 