Another day of heavy rain and warm weather did it, the chanterelles have come out, just in time for my daughter’s birthday, who, alas, just left again.
My first serious harvest this year was enough for two toasts (with Phantasia, a wonderful local goat cheese, and aragula sprouts),
as well as a small salad with roasted vegetables.
Let’s see what else July will bring.
After all the spring wildflowers are gone, there is not much left blooming here. So these little flowers came as a surprise when I found them on my Pate Hollow Trail.
What we have here is Chimaphila maculata, or the Striped Wintergreen (an odd name for a summer wildflower).
Endangered, it says for Indiana.
This has been my first time with this rare misfit, and I hope it is here to stay.
With the end of spring, the Brood X cicadas are finally gone, together with their song.
After 17 years under ground (17 years — a measure of life?) they have emerged for a final dance.
It’s precisely choreographed, and slow.
Who taught them all this?
Then, after a very long embrace, they rest. They now have all the time in the world.
Here are 30 minutes of cicada song, fading into rain at the end.
A week after the first emergence, the cicadas from Brood X are still coming, they and their exoskeletons are everywhere.
There is no point of hiding.
Instead, leaving the exoskeletons for the birds creates an essential diversion.
That the birds live in the land of plenty this year allowed me to harvest for the first time the cherries from my weeping cherry. Tiny, tart, and tasty.
They just have three weeks. Every second counts. Maybe we should live like that, too.
So here is one of our new friends, up close, with the two big eyes and the three small ocelli.
Reduced distance to the unknown is disconcerting, so I turned off color to create the illusion that we are seeing something abstract, not a living being.
As in Julio Cortázar’s short story Axolotl, the question arises who is looking at whom here.
Are we as different to them as they are to us?
After a glorious night, most of the emergence is done, or at least paused, as it is a cold morning here.
The imagos have matured over night and blackened. I didn’t know that they can have different eye colors.
The one of top decided to move a little, and to let go:
Some of them look weary into the future. The birds have been particularly loud this morning.
Here is one I rescued after it falling to the ground.
After a few cold nights it finally got warmer, and the cicadas from Brood X are finally here. Some of the nymphs need directions.
The shedding of the exoskeleton takes about an hour and is a dramatic spectacle.
When I saw the m it was already getting dark, so I had to help a bit with the light. Below they are half emerged, but still use the support of their shell.
When dry enough, they emerge completely, and rest for another 15 minutes.
When the wings are dry enough, the imagos will move away from their exoskeleton and start unfolding.
There is no looking back … Life can begin, again.
While Brood X seems to be delayed, the first spiderworts (Tradescantia ohiensis) have made their appearance here.
I have captured (or been captivated by) them before, in all their architectural beauty.
These are early morning photos, to avoid harsh sunlight and wind.
At this time the flowers are not fully open yet, conveying a sleepy intimacy.
Here is the second part of the pre-frost wildflowers, in their perfect whiteness.
All gone now…
Rue Anenome (Thalictrum thalictroides)
Drooping Trillium (Trillium flexipes)
Star Chickweed (Stellaria pubera)
Squirrel Corn (Dicentra canadensis) and Striped Cream Violet (Viola striata)
Snowfall overnight in late April is rare here, but has its own strange appeal.
Unfortunately I had other obligations this morning, so I couldn’t go on a longer expedition, so I paid our campus a visit.
While the trees have mostly managed the extra burden, most flowers did not.
It’s not all sadness. Hours later, the snow was all gone, and the recovery has begun.
In the afternoon I went on a short hike at Pate Hollow. Many wildflowers were gone here, and tree blossoms have fallen. Grayness has returned.
But there still is life,
and thus hope.