Tag: butterflies

Choices on long days

It’s the first full day of summer, yesterday’s midday solstice behind us. I have 15 hours and 38 minutes to work with, or play with. What should I do as the sun takes its leisurly most northerly path, from sunrise in the northeast to sunset in the northwest?

Should I share the day with the skippers in the hay, trying to match their nonchalant ways as they bounce from daisy to daisy, drawn to oxeyes? Maybe I’ll look for agates in the dry creek, though maybe I’ll wait for the next hard rain to tumble them into view.

Should I ease into the morning with a cup of coffee on the quiet porch, or with a fishing rod on a quiet lake, the silence broken only by the call of a loon? That could also be saved for sunset, though I’m leaning towards a trout stream, watching brookies break the surface for mayflies, and for my imagination if not my imitation.

Also near sunset I could choose to walk with the cooling of the evening, perhaps seeing a deer doing the same as it tiptoes through corn rows or pauses in the fold of ferns to query my presence.

And the long hours between sunrise and sunset? What about them? I’ll watch a catbird at the bird bath, then walk a trail and make notes of tiny blossoms on brambles where green blackberries will begin their journey to sweetness.

Should I mow lawn or drive through the countryside and smell fresh-mown hay? I could follow a bumblebee or look for a walking stick—one the insect, the other a walking aid. I’ll check the bluebird box.

So many ways to go on long days in the greenness of June as nature takes up a myriad of matters in the extended light. The seasons turn on the solstice and the sun trails the corresponding path, keeping all in balance

Is there a solstice, a turning point, a path and balance in my own life? Am I on course, connecting the natural world with my inner self? There’s plenty of time to find out today.

Cloak of winter lifted

When the sun yawned on the eastern horizon on the first day of spring only one cloud stood in its wake-up way. That cloud, narrow and jagged, painted a temporary design on the reddish sphere. And then it went wherever clouds go.

The sun cleared the clutter and claimed the morning. And the day. It had already inhaled the snow over the previous weeks. Now it was intent on warming the nesting feelings in arriving birds. It was also awakening the flutter in our spring’s earliest butterfly.

By afternoon, mourning cloaks were flopping and flitting about in the yard. I had to check a butterfly guide to confirm what I was looking at. It all rushed back to me—the mourning cloak’s overall dark appearance making the cream-colored border on its wings stand out. The top of its wings are a deep brown, with a band of bluish dots on black tracing the golden rim.

Our best look at a mourning cloak is normally when it alights on something and folds its wings. The underside of those wings is dark charcoal, but again the creamy rim distinctly marks the butterfly’s 3-inch wingspan. Note that the wing edges may appear ragged from the wear of its long life in butterfly terms.

We admire monarch butterflies for their thousands of miles migration flight to winter in Mexico. But on the other end of the spectrum, we might want to give some love to the non-migrating mourning cloak. Yes, it overwinters in butterfly form, not as an egg or larvae. It stays out of the snow by tucking into a hole or crevice in a tree or unheated outbuilding.

This mild hibernation, called diapause, actually takes a fluttering pause on some unusually mild winter days. Say it’s a sunny afternoon well into the 40˚s in late winter. The mourning cloak may emerge for a short flight. For the most part, however, the butterfly stays sheltered, and it’s this winter adult form that makes the mourning cloak one of the longest living butterflies, even if that life is only 10 months.

We, too, like those rare thawing days in winter. But what finally brings us out are the spring days of sunshine, when sap leaks from the maple tree trunk and branches. That’s where I saw the mourning cloaks taking aim, and it all makes sense, for our first butterfly is a sap feeder, seeking out anything sugary.

I watched this marvel of the butterfly world. In the vernal equinox sun, the flight of the mourning cloak warmed me, knowing our winged creatures were reappearing in the reawakening countryside.