Looking Ahead

     There is no question that 2020 has been a difficult year. We have seen way too many deaths that should have been avoidable, along with all the economic disruption caused both by the virus itself and our attempts to control it (which might have been more successful had more supposed adults done as public health experts asked). Schools closed, and parents not trained as teachers suddenly had to oversee online education for kids who were missing their friends and not wanting to sit in front of a screen (a natural and healthy reaction, let me add). The natural world gave us wildfires, hurricanes, and murder hornets. The US had an election that should have ended eight weeks ago. (I am hoping that four-year presidential campaigns and unending elections do not become the norm.) Mental health hotlines have been flooded with calls.

    But for introverts who managed to stay healthy, 2020 has not been so bad. Sitting in one's favorite chair with a book became a perfectly respectable semi-activity. Taking long walks alone became normal. Puttering around the house or in our gardens instead of socializing became a reasonable choice. Indeed, avoiding social events became a civic virtue, not the sign of depression that many extroverts seem to assume it is. (Not to be too critical of my extrovert friends, but in my experience most extroverts seem unable to understand that some people find their energy depleted by too much time spent in the company of humans.) Articles on how to enjoy time alone proliferated.

    Yes, 2020 was a good year for introverts.

    But now, the vaccine rollout has begun, and we can hope that infection and death rates from the novel coronavirus will begin to decline. This is absolutely a good thing. By this time next year, the world may have returned to “normal.” This is going to be a serious adjustment for some of us.

    It is likely that people will want to make up for lost time, so there will be an upsurge in parties. Gaggles of humans will become commonplace again, and extroverts will want to see all the people from whom they have been separated for the duration of the pandemic. We will all be receiving lots of invitations from people we like. Bars and restaurants will be packed, making a quiet meal or drink with friends impossible in any public place. Every weekend in any month of remotely decent weather will have its festival, with every civic-minded person expected to come out in support of whatever-it-is (and all our civic organizations need our support, so I get it). Spending significant chunks of time with humans will be expected.

    Extroverts, please be considerate of your introvert friends. After so many months of blessed quiet, we will not be okay.

Alone but not lonely in Cozumel

An optimized life (feline version)

         The last week of the year seems to bring lots of year-end and New Year's resolution-type advice. Much of it seems to concern ways to optimize one's life. An optimized life seems to involve increasing the efficiency with which daily tasks are performed so that more can be accomplished while also pondering questions like "Do I have a sense of direction for my life?" and "Do I know what my purpose is?" It also seems to involve a daily schedule that begins with yoga or running at 6:00 AM and gives each hour its assigned task. 

     I fear my life was never optimized, and, four years into retirement, I suspect it is not likely to be. This situation could be cause for angst, but during the pandemic, I have spent more time with cats than with humans. Cats, at least our three, do not appear to be Pondering The Meaning of Life or seeking ways to accomplish more in any given twenty-four-hour period--or at least, not very often. Mittsy, the polydactyl adopted from a shelter in 2006, does occasionally appear to be Thinking Deep Thoughts.

    However, this sort of pondering is not typical. A favorite activity in warm weather is hanging out on her cat tree on the screened porch, watching the bird feeder. These days, she demands to go onto the porch, then approximately two and half minutes later demands to come in, then in an hour or so. . . but those who live with cats may have seen this behavior.

    Another of Mittsy's favorite activities is killing the cat toys, announcing at great volume that she has done so, and bringing the hunting trophies to The Human as gifts. Particular favorites are the fuzzy dice intended by a nephew as decorations for a classic car he was restoring but stolen off the coffee table by the feline who proceeded to attack them with great ferocity.

    As she has aged, however, Mittsy's favorite pastime appears to be napping, particularly if a sunbeam can be found. Today, she and Feraldine found good spots on a sofa (covered as protection against hairballs in yet another example of The Human's non-optimized life).

    Poor Feraldine, adopted as a backyard stray at approximately six months of age, almost certainly does not have an optimized life. We seem to have missed her socialization window, with the result that, after thirteen years in the house, she remains aware of herself as potential prey and not particularly trusting of humans or other living things (with the exception of Mittsy). She has, however, discovered that Humans are the source of Feline Greenies and can be trusted for occasional head rubs. She is also fond of naps in sunbeams.

    Mirabel, at seventeen the eldest of our girls, may be the most optimized. Certainly, she is the most active, getting her early exercise by walking on The Human until verticality is achieved and canned cat food is provided. She also spends the most time in the presence of human knowledge, staring at the computer screen and whatever book The Human happens to be reading. She likes the work desk. Occasionally, she even tries to help with projects.

    The cats have not told me what their purpose is. I am not certain they are conscious of having one. I do not know if they think they are living their best life. It is quite possible they are not, as The Human does not cook organic free-range chicken for them but buys their food at Kroger, and most of their toys are wine corks or old socks stuffed with catnip and crinkly plastic packaging. They do not get regular shipments from Chewy.com. But if purring is a sign of feline satisfaction, they seem to do a fair amount of it.

    

    Is contented optimal enough? That might be a question to ponder during a long pandemic winter.

The darkest night of a dark year

     It comes as no surprise that 2020 has been a dark and difficult year. A global pandemic and its economic fallout, a public extra-judicial execution leading to weeks of protests, gangs of armed thugs storming statehouses and threatening officials, the ugliest US election of my lifetime capped off with weeks of legal and extra-legal maneuvering by a vicious lame-duck president and threats of martial law. This year also brought the deaths of six former colleagues, three of them near my age, a former student, and two church friends. The day before Halloween, a friend died of Covid, and the list of those who have tested positive grows longer by the day. A few days ago, the son of an old friend finally succumbed to the progressive neurological illness that had been weakening him for decades. 2020 has brought a litany of losses.

    This year's winter solstice coincides with the great conjunction, the planetary lineup that has been called the Christmas Star. Many of us had hoped to head outdoors to see it, as we here in the Mid-Ohio Valley climb the Turtle Mound every year to view the solstice sunset as the Hopewell did. Unfortunately, today brought lowering clouds, rain, and what for a while sounded like ice pellets, so no stars or sunset have been visible. Today has indeed been a day of darkness, and tonight will be the longest night of the year.

    But the period of light begins growing longer tomorrow, even though our area is likely to be too cloudy for that astronomical fact to be evident. The various weather channels at least predict sun for Wednesday, with rain and snow expected to follow. And this is just December, so we can expect several more months of winter. 

Winter, of course, brings some gifts. The juncos are here, and there have been a couple of pine siskins at the feeder in the walled patio. Chickadees are omnipresent, and this downy is a regular visitor to the suet feeder.

    The major gift for all of us is the rollout of a vaccine for the novel coronavirus. People in the next county over are beginning to receive it, although our local hospital cannot manage the temperature control needed for the Pfizer and will have to wait for the less-fussy vaccine. As an under-seventy retiree, I will not be in the early groups to be vaccinated and will be spending the winter literally at home. That, too, is a gift. With no yard work to do for the next few months, I may finally sort through the last few boxes belonging to various deceased relatives, not to mention the last boxes of files and oddments brought from my campus office four years ago. The file cabinet purge and reorganization may finally be finished (just in time for another year's worth of records to need purging, no doubt). 

    Winter also brings time to just be, if we will let ourselves. That may be my next project.

Nothing can compare

 to the sweetness of October, according to a favorite song by the fabulous Kitty Donohoe. And it is absolutely true that few things stir the spirit more than October light in the temperate regions of North America. Here it is shining in the trees at a Toledo Metropark.

The Meadow Trail, Swan Creek Metropark, Toledo, Ohio

Reflections on water are also a favorite sight

River Trail at East Muskingum Park, Marietta, Ohio

as is light on human-created objects. 

Putnam Street Bridge, Marietta, Ohio

And sometimes, October just goes crazy.

Toledo Botanical Garden

But for me the sweetness of October is always a little bittersweet. Those beautiful colors and that magical light will not last, and here in Ohio, we can generally expect some extended periods of gray skies. Since my spouse has occasionally accused me of photosynthesizing, gray skies are not my favorite thing. And the life that has kept us company these last months will be less. The hummingbirds and monarchs have migrated, most of the flowers have quit blooming, and a number of insects are nearing the end of their lives. Today, despite the dampness and chill, two bumblebees were very slowly working a patch of wingstem, gathering late pollen to take back to the nest. If they live long enough, they will use the pollen to make the honey that feeds the queen, the only member of their colony who will survive the year.

Do they know that they are nearing the end? Insect cognition is not in my area of expertise. Whatever the state of whatever mind bumblebees may have, they keep going until the frost finishes them off or they die of old age. To go out doing what one does is not necessarily a bad thing.

October is sweet, and it is fleeting, and its golden light is only temporary. Enjoy this fine time while it lasts.

Finch Field

 It has been a really long time since I visited this blog. Pandemic brain is a real thing.

When poet Wendell Berry is overwhelmed with "despair for the world," he goes to lie down next to a marsh, or at least a pond, if his classic poem "The Peace of Wild Things" is to be taken literally (which poetry generally is not). I love both marshes and ponds, but lying down next to one in the middle of the night would not be a good idea for me. For no other reason, there is the little matter of getting up again, not an activity to be taken for granted by someone who has arthritis most places she has bone. Fortunately, the "grace of the world" can be experienced in a variety of places. One of my favorite spots is what I call Finch Field, just beyond Susan's Meadow on the Meadow Loop Trail at Wildwood Metropark.

The field may not be immediately aesthetically arresting, but it is on my top ten list of happy places. For several months every year, it is Goldfinch Paradise, and today did not disappoint. Today, this particular thistle was in motion from the at-least-three female finches having at its seed. I opted not to get close enough to photograph the girls, my little point-and-shoot not having sufficient capacity to get a good shot without disturbing them, but they were there for several minutes going about their business. Then, as is the way of goldfinches, they took off, leaving me free to examine the plant and ask, "Why this thistle, in a field full of them?"

No answer emerged, as to my human eye, this plant looked just like dozens of others nearby. But it was The One today.

Not only for the finches, but also for what seemed to be some very busy bumblebees.

Weedy and annoying as thistle can be, is any cultivated flower more beautiful than a thistle bloom bud?

Another highlight of Finch Field is the grasses. Indian grass comes into its own in September. This clump also got its share of goldfinch attention. You must imagine a little golden bird riding one of these five-foot blades to the ground, nibbling all the way.

And the sight of the tree I have named the Prairie Sentinel always lifts my spirits. This white oak on the edge of a mixed second-growth woodland is older than I and, barring human intervention, is likely to be here for at least a couple of centuries after all of us currently inhabiting the planet are gone.

Surrounded by so much life, pandemics, elections, and the deaths of much-loved leaders fade away.

Another reason to Leave the Leaf Litter

We all know by now that leaf litter is important for overwintering pollinators and other insects. (Right? We do all know that, don't we?) Those "dead" leaves are often home to lepidoptera eggs, which give us next season's butterflies and moths. Our human penchant for tidy lawns is almost certainly one reason why we see fewer colorful insects today than some of us remember from our childhoods.

Leaf litter hides seeds, dried berries, worms, and insects, serving as a buffet for the birds that eat such things. There is a reason some species are known as "thrashers."

And we know that leaf litter is natural mulch, reducing the need for water and cutting down on the gardener's work. Best of all (at least for those of a thrifty--not to say cheap-bent), it is free, letting us spend our money on more plants rather than on shredded hardwood. 

But today, walking at a favorite park, I was reminded of another Very Important Reason to Leave the Leaves: they provide shelter and protection from predators for small creatures. Admiring the baby sassafras and fading mayapples at this overlook,

I kept hearing rustling sounds and seeing tiny eruptions of leaves. Suspecting that wildlife was present but unable to see any (because of all that leaf litter), I hung around until finally being rewarded with the sight of the creature I thought was most likely responsible: a large and handsome chipmunk, who did not hold still long enough for a photograph. (Plants are so much more cooperative in that respect.)

This favorite park is home to some quite beautiful predators, including the Cooper's hawk sighted a few hundred feet away in a sunny area, but leaving the leaves for cover gives the little guys a chance. And when there are lots of them, that is good for the predators as well, not to mention good for those of us who delight in watching the critters.

A little laziness is a good thing.

Radical Trust

This is not my usual topic; I am generally more comfortable with plants than people, our species often driving me to despair. Certainly, this has been one of those weeks. Someone sworn to protect the community kills an unarmed man, justified protests against this horror turn violent, attempts to control the violence beget more violence. Not humanity's finest hour.

By now, many of us have probably heard of Genesee County, Michigan, Sheriff Chris Swanson's peaceful walk with a group of protestors. Flint is a city in which too many people have no reason to trust public officials, given the toxic drinking water still coming from too many taps. And yet a situation that could have been disastrous--wasn't. Hundreds of protesters had been marching for some time when they arrived at police headquarters. They had to know about the violence that has erupted around the country. In the capital city of my own state, a city council member, a county commissioner, and a no-longer-young US Congresswoman were pepper-sprayed by police. In New York, a police SUV drove into a crowd. In Detroit, a young man was killed in protest-related violence. In Flint Township, the marchers found armed police in riot gear. The protesters sat to demonstrate their peaceful intentions. The sheriff asked them what they wanted. Eventually, "walk with us" was the response. He took off his protective helmet, laid down his baton, and the police and the protesters became a group of people who walked together in a show of grief and determination to prevent more killings.





The courage of those people in Flint brought me to tears. What made Flint different from Minneapolis or New York or Atlanta or Columbus? Maybe it was trust.

The protesters chose nonviolence, trusting that their choice would prevent a violent response from the assembled officers. Sheriff Swanson removed his protective gear, trusting that the people around him meant what they said. They marched together, trusting in the American right to freedom of assembly. And everyone went home safely.

This kind of trust is radical, a word that we often forget comes from the Latin for "having roots." Radical trust is not just the ultimate reliability of crowdsourcing. A radical trust is rooted in character, whether of a person or of a society. This radical trust requires courage, the ancient word for heart.  Those leading the protest marched knowing the risk of violence, but they trusted in their own peaceful intentions. The sheriff knew that removing his protective helmet placed him at risk, but he trusted in the integrity of the marchers. They demonstrated that we do not need to distrust those we perceive as different from us.

Yesterday, Flint demonstrated trust in community and in each other. Dare we trust the rest of the country to do the same?

Why We Garden

Yes, there are the practical reasons--fresh food, and exactly the varieties we want. And the environmental reasons, like providing habitat for pollinators and other local wildlife. 

And I definitely get excited at the year's first butterfly, bumblebee, and hummingbird, and am always happy to see birds darting from plant to plant and providing a soundtrack to my puttering.

But sometimes, like now, the truth is that the pleasure of seeing so much floral exuberance is my main reason for this activity. Iris season is just--so.

It is not possible to pick a favorite, with so many luscious, easy-to-grow lovelies out there, but this outrageous pink, acquired from a local plant sale, is up there on the list.

This pale blue, donated to the same sale by the same plant-collecting friend, is also stunning.

And then there are the other types, like this Siberian iris.

In addition to being drop-dead gorgeous and difficult if not impossible to kill, irises play surprisingly well with others (despite their occasional thuggish tendencies). This heirloom iris blooming in front of Physocarpus "Diablo" is one of my favorite late-spring combinations.

This bicolor blooming near allium "Purple Sensation" and hosta "Guacamole" also makes me happy.

Irises, I recently learned, have been cultivated for literally thousands of years, with the straight species Iris pallida still available today. Mine came from a clump of my mother's, who inherited it when she and my father retired to a cottage built in the 1930's. This ancient bloom smells like grape Kool-Aid (so one must wonder if the people who create processed food copied the fragrance from the flower).

Different weeks bring different extravagances in the garden, but right now, I am celebrating irises.

When the birds won't cooperate

you photograph something else, of course.

May is prime birding season in Ohio, with the neotropical migrants coming through, local birds nesting and gifting us with lots of adorable babies, and goldfinches showing off their ridiculously gorgeous breeding plumage. Yesterday's perambulations of two urban parks (okay, large parks, in the multiple hundred of acres) brought sightings of two species of woodpeckers, lots of finches, blackbirds, bluebirds, indigo buntings, scarlet tanagers, and at least one magnolia warbler. Of course, none of these birds would sit still to be photographed.

A return to the larger of the two parks this morning was a birding bust. The day was gray and misty, and the birds were hanging out in the trees or leaf litter and trying not to be seen, though their calls were everywhere. Still, no park perambulation is ever wasted.

Misty mornings are fine times to view a wet meadow,

and the approach to the Ellen Biddle Shipman-designed formal garden was perhaps even more romantic than usual.

Droplets from last night's rain were still hanging on an old copper beech

and the fallen blossoms of cherries and crabapples were making quite a lovely mess.

A tree of a species I did not recognize (locust, maybe?) was trying to grow leaves right out of its trunk,

and its bark was a world of its own.

Not a bad way to spend an hour or two.

Too much of a good thing

They look so innocent, those sweet pale-blue blossoms that are one of the year's last flowers. Ditto the little plants that sprouted at the foot of the boxwoods, just looking for a little sun. Of course I had to let them blossom and move a few of the plants to a better neighborhood, right?

Not necessarily. Looks can be deceiving. Despite all its good qualities, which are many, this aster (which has been variously identified as large-leaved, heart-leaved, and Short's) has turned into the bully on the block. I will start with the good news.

• This late-blooming aster is an absolute pollinator magnet.
• It can bloom (sporadically) as late as the first week of December in southern Ohio, providing food for any bumblebees that venture out late in the year. 
• It blooms in both sun and shade.
• It tolerates drought and poor soil--basically, it asks for nothing.
• It's pretty and makes a decent cut flower.

The perfect plant, right? Not always, it turns out. 

My garden happens to have good soil, the result of millennia of flooding and leaf mold and decades of tending by a passionate and talented gardener whose work I inherited. (Don't hate me.) This aster is a plant that behaves VERY BADLY in good conditions.

The first year after being introduced to the garden, it played well with its aster cousins in the wildflower bed, making this lovely October display. I dug up some extras for a potted pollinator patch on the back patio and put others in the local plant sale.

The second year, I gave away dozens of asters to friends who wanted to improve their pollinator habitat and dozens more to the plant sale.

The thinning was not enough. At the beginning of their fourth season as more-or-less cultivated plants, these lovely asters are attempting to replicate Ohio native General Sherman's march to the sea.  For the last year, I have been pulling baby asters out of sidewalk cracks, flowerpots, the brick walkway to the back patio, the pollinator bed, and the entire north-facing lawn strip around the corner from the pollinator bed. Asters have invaded the hosta and hydrangea bed and surrounded the lilac, encroached on an ostrich fern planting, and filled an entire corner where they are attempting to choke out the violets and left room for barely a thread of creeping charlie. (Okay, maybe this last is not a bad thing.)  Today I filled a bag that once held forty pounds of potting soil with the corpses of baby asters--and no doubt left some roots lurking in the soil, where they will laugh and send out more runners and create even larger aster patches. 

The moral of the story: no plant is a good plant for all situations. Now that I know what it is, I see this aster growing in fields and meadows and getting along just fine with the other plants there. No monoculture seems imminent. In rich soil, though, it becomes a bully, and if I donate any to a plant sale (whenever we can hold such things again), I will send along a warning label. 

• Give this plant a lot of room. Wild meadows and woodland edges are its natural habitat.
• Do NOT plant it in rich soil. This is a plant that needs to be kept on a diet.
• Do NOT include it in a formal setting, unless you can keep after it all the time.
• Consider confining it in a large container, where it will overwinter with no problem. You will still have to dump the container and dispose of excess asters every couple of years.

It is indeed possible to have too much of a good thing.

Service

This is the best year I remember for downtown serviceberries, or perhaps the slowdown of human life (or retirees' lives, anyway) caused by the coronavirus pandemic is allowing more time to notice the life around us. Back when I mostly saw them while whizzing along I-77 on my way to work, Amelanchier were ho-hum early trees, blooming on Appalachian hillsides along with the first redbuds but not nearly as exciting or welcome as the later-blooming dogwoods. 

Nuts to that. 

Humans in North America have made use of these small trees for a long time, as the variety of common names suggests. "Saskatoon" comes from the Cree name for one species of Amelanchier, and the berries were an ingredient in pemmican, a preserved staple in the diets of some indigenous peoples.  In New England, they were "shadblows," their bloom time coinciding with the running of that early fish species. In Appalachia, "sarvis" or serviceberry was related to the time when circuit-riding preachers (like my maternal grandfather) could use the mountain roads to get to rural communities to perform funeral services for those who had died over the winter. "Juneberry" refers of course to the time when the edible fruit ripens, well before the raspberries that come along in high summer. 

But the tree is not useful only to humans. Go outside now, to any blooming serviceberry, and you will find bees working the bloom clusters. A good year for serviceberry is also likely to be a good year for the tiny blue butterflies known as spring azures, which feed on the nectar. More importantly, the plant hosts over 100 species of butterfly and moth larvae, including those of the tiger swallowtail and luna moth (assuming, of course, that the trees are not sprayed to prevent insect-chewing). The berries attract multiple species of birds, including robins, orioles, catbirds, and cedar waxwings, a flock of which once stripped a neighbor's thirty-year-old serviceberry in less than an hour--but what a show.

And despite my former dismissal of Amelanchier's aesthetic value, when you take the time to look, the blooms of this shrubby little tree are beautiful.

Service on lots of levels.

Spring in a time of pandemic

Shakespeare's phrase "the winter of our discontent" may need revision for our era, as a springtime lockdown has spread across much of the world, sparking all manner of discontent (and fortunately, all manner of creativity, much of it positive). My winter in Yucatan (and that of thousands of others) was cut short, my travel companion and I heading back to Ohio on St Patrick's Day. Many of those who opted to wait a bit longer faced all manner of travel difficulties, but we were lucky. (I credit my tendency to anticipate the worst with getting us out of Mexico before the airlines started canceling flights.) Other than a long layover and not much of a hotel breakfast due to pandemic restrictions on businesses, we arrived home without incident and have experienced no coronavirus symptoms during our 14-day quarantines, which end tomorrow. Thus far, all of our expat and Mexican friends report themselves healthy as well.

We know, however, that the beautiful towns where we stayed are not having an easy time. With the travel industry basically shut down for the duration, many people are out of work. With restaurants closed and many of the Norteamericanos gone for the season or forever, fisherfolk have lost their best customers. With beaches, many parks, and most businesses closed, street vendors are out of work. Without a ready supply of cash, many Yucatecos are unable to stock up on food and supplies and so must visit the remaining mercados more than is prudent--if they have money to shop at all. Food relief has been set up in many towns, along with severe travel restrictions. A number of places we have visited are allowing no one but permanent residents to enter, with roadblocks common. The good news from Yucatan is that there have been no Covid-19 deaths as of this writing.

And despite the problems faced by humans, spring is springing. Every day I wake to birdsong. Robins are busily foraging for nesting materials, which my messy yard provides in abundance. Cardinals are preparing to nest in our streetside maple for the fourth year in a row, woodpeckers are drumming in the arboretum, and lots of small feathered somethings have taken up residence in our old Norway spruce, not something I would ever plant but which definitely seems to be providing nesting and roosting sites for the neighborhood. Even the kousa dogwoods are being checked out as potential family homes.

The approach of April in the Ohio Valley means lots of bloom. Besides all the non-natives that we associate with spring, our native violets and spring beauties are doing their thing, indicating a good year for fritillaries and other insects.

And while we humans classify dead nettle as a weed, swaths of the stuff are pleasing to the eye--and more important, a nectar source for early bees.

We do not generally think of daffodils as wildlife habitat, but I have seen bees and early crickets in them, and two days ago had to rehome a tiny spider that arrived in our kitchen via a daffodil cup (not this one, but it is a favorite variety).

Much of our human world may be at a standstill, but life does go on.

Thoughts on a beach walk

Humans

try to hold back the sea

The K'awis

on a palm frond

rides the wind.

For the birds

This morning I was lucky enough to take part in a bird walk with CICY ornithologist Richard Feldman and a group of birding enthusiasts. Our intrepid group met at the botanical garden at 7:30 (late by birding standards, but quite sufficiently early for me, given travel from the beach to central Merida) and were treated to an introductory talk on resident and migratory birds before heading into the garden itself. I and at least one other member of our group had not known that well-fed birds in good condition can cross the Gulf of Mexico in less than 24 hours, a fact that gives me a whole other level of appreciation for the warblers and buntings that arrive in Ohio in May.

The Roger Orellana Botanical Garden, all six acres of it, is major bird habitat in a seriously deforested urban area, with 85 species confirmed here at different times. This dry forest, or selva seca, which makes up the central portion of the garden, is home to two motmot species, both of them showing off for us this morning.

Unfortunately, my point-and-shoot camera does not do well with greenish birds hanging out in leafy areas, even when said birds have definite turquoise eyebrows and most distinctive tails. This image from the Cornell Lab of Ornithology shows how gorgeous the turquoise-browed motmot, known to the Maya as the t'oh, really is.

• © Luke Seitz
• Macaulay Library ML43277571

Both species breed in this cave, found in the heart of the dry forest.

Our morning meander along the paths rewarded us with not only motmots but orioles (and a most glorious hanging nest), kiskadees, saltators, vireos, woodpeckers, flycatchers, blackbirds, two species of hummingbirds, a variety of doves, and of course gaggles of grackles. These handsome boys were showing off in Progreso, but you get the idea.

As the day warmed, the insects came out and swarmed the various trees that bloom this time of year. (Sorry, northern friends.) Seeing a dozen species of butterflies and lots of fat black bees working the late-winter flowers will definitely brighten a person's day. And a healthy insect population bodes well for the birds.

The good news in our time of so much bad environmental news: restoring even small sections of habitat can make a real difference for some of our feathered (and other) friends.