Yesterday evening butterflies made an encore appearance in they yard. This time the red admirals were joined by several clouded sulfurs, a handful of question marks and commas, and a few individuals that I couldn’t identify. The action was fast and fierce as they defended their favorite perches, which might explain the increasing incidence of wing damage.
I know it can’t go on forever, this butterfly explosion, but I hope it lasts a few more days…
Yesterday a steady parade of red admiral butterflies fluttered through the yard. Apparently, these butterflies are in the midst of an unprecedented early migration. Every few minutes, two or three individuals entered the yard from the south and exited to the north. A few of them paused to inspect the irises and wax myrtle, which almost always led to a brief skirmish with the next butterfly in line.
When sunset neared, as the sun’s rays struck steeper and steeper angles, more and more butterflies stopped to perch in the yard. By the time I took these photos, every southwest-facing surface had been claimed.
Our two ancient benches, painted white, seemed to be highly desirable. They became a focal spot for outbreaks of territorial tempests.
The resulting mid-air duels seemed harmless enough, the butterfly equivalent of arm wrestling. But this individual’s tattered wing made me wonder about the potential for true violence.
The red admiral party ended as the sun sank lower. The yard cooled, wings folded, and aggressions subsided. Once the fence was completely in shadow, the butterflies disappeared. I don’t know where they went, but within a matter of minutes they were gone.
One lone straggler, either a comma or question mark butterfly, crashed on the deck as I was going inside.
It’s hind wings were fouled with a thick snarl of spider web. I managed to remove most of the silk without further damaging the wings. As it flew away, it still seemed a bit impaired, but butterflies always fly as if they are intoxicated. Which isn’t far from how I would feel, given those wings and that lust and such a steady diet of nectar.
Another beautiful, warm day. The last thing I really wanted to do was crank the lawnmower. But, as is often the case, my last-choice task was on the verge of critical. The yard was calf-high in places. (In my defense, I think the moths and bees prefer it that way…)
Unfortunately, moths and bees aren’t running things. (Or… Maybe they are?)
No matter who is in charge, the yard needed mowing. So I laced up my grass-stained shoes, slapped on some sunscreen, and charged my iPod’s battery. I was almost finished, tired and grumpy and over-hot, when this little turtle popped out of the grass right in front of the mower.
I wasn’t able to stop before catching him a bit with the front wheel. (I think I might have been the one who nicked his tail…) But he doesn’t seem to have suffered any lasting harm. Later this evening, I’ll release him near a pond. For now, he’s resting under an open window, safe from the yard’s many dangers.
He’s very small. Probably the smallest turtle I’ve ever seen!
The sky is dull gray, the air damp and chilly. It’s almost as if our lost winter has found its way home, at last, and means to stay a while. Except, there are all these flowers…
The robin doesn’t appear to be worried, though she is sticking close to the nest. Perhaps I’ll follow her lead.
I can’t explain my fascination with irises. My paternal grandmother kept them, but I have few reliable memories of her. They are Tennessee’s state flower, but I never planted them in Tennessee’s soil. Maybe my Virginia house and yard simply called for irises, as some metaphors call for poetry. Maybe my first iris bulbs, prized gifts in a brown paper bag, arrived when they decided I was ready.
Years ago, I preened over blooms, then gaped in awe as sturdy green fans survived hurricanes and snowstorms. I fumed through fall’s brutal business of separating stubborn roots and bulbs, then forgave my unruly brood when spring’s spectacular crop nodded thanks for my labor.
Soon they’ll need separating again. The work is tedious and itchy, fraught with allergy perils. I scratch and sneeze while my irises fight back with the only weapons they possess, an encamped army of spiders and mosquitoes, crickets and ants. Maybe there will be another praying mantis, like the one that leapt into the cuff of my glove last time.
I’m still fascinated, if a bit overwhelmed by the magnitude of what grew out of that brown paper bag.
I wrote parts of this piece several years ago. It was a starting place for what later became one of my favorite poems.
Rae Spencer 