On a warm September afternoon, 2024, Pam and I passed a planting of shimmering grasses along the Cayuga Lake shore, the tips of their feathery plumes swaying in a gentle breeze. Amidst the verdant tapestry, my eyes caught a flash of delicate green—a Monarch chrysalis, hanging like a precious jewel beneath one of the seed heads. It was an unexpected encounter, a moment of grace that felt almost otherworldly. The chrysalis, pale jade with gold accents, looked like something born of magic rather than biology. For a moment, time paused.
The only Monarch chrysalis we found in 2024, notable for the absence of caterpillars around our home. Tompkins Park, Ithaca, New York, Finger Lakes Region
I knelt carefully, mindful not to disturb the fragile life suspended before me. As I leaned in closer, I marveled at the perfection of its design. The intricate gold dots along its casing seemed impossibly precise, as though a divine hand had painted them there. Yet, this chrysalis was also a paradox: it was a shield of stillness, promising the coming transformation of a creature known for motion and migration.
The significance of this discovery didn’t escape me. Just two years ago, the International Union for Conservation of Nature officially classified the Monarch butterfly as “endangered.” Habitat destruction, pesticide use, and climate change have decimated their numbers. Monarchs, once so plentiful they seemed a seasonal certainty, now teeter on the edge of disappearance. To find this chrysalis was to witness a quiet rebellion against those odds, a solitary emblem of resilience in a world fraught with loss.
I thought of their epic journey—a migration that spans thousands of miles, linking Canada to the forests of central Mexico. For generations, these butterflies have followed ancestral paths with unerring precision, defying every obstacle in their way. How can something so small carry the weight of such immense journeys? And how, in a world that seems to grow harsher each year, do they still persist?
This chrysalis, tucked in the grasses of Stewart Park, felt like an answer to those questions. It was a reminder of the resilience of life, the determination of nature to continue despite all that works against it. And yet, it also felt like a fragile promise. The Monarch’s survival is no longer assured; its future, like the butterfly within this chrysalis, hangs by a thread.
As I rose and continued our walk, I carried the image of the chrysalis with me, letting its quiet beauty settle in my mind. I thought of the interconnectedness of all things: the milkweed plants that sustain Monarch caterpillars, the winds that guide their migrations, and the people whose choices shape the landscapes they traverse. Stewardship is not just a responsibility; it is a privilege—an opportunity to ensure that these miraculous creatures continue to grace our skies.
By the time I left the park, the sun had sunk toward the west, its light no longer graced the grasses. I looked back one last time, hoping that this chrysalis would complete its transformation safely. In its stillness, I saw not just hope, but a call to action. The Monarch’s story is not just about survival; it’s about the courage to evolve and adapt, even when the odds seem insurmountable. And perhaps, in witnessing this moment of metamorphosis, we too are reminded of our capacity to change—to become better stewards of the world we share.
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Copyright 2025 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
Taughannock Falls, a majestic 215-foot waterfall, showcases nature’s beauty and power, intertwining geological history with vibrant ecosystems in New York.
Introduction Nestled in the heart of the Finger Lakes region of New York, Taughannock Falls stands as a testament to the delicate balance of power and beauty in nature. This iconic waterfall plunges 215 feet—one of the tallest single-drop waterfalls east of the Rocky Mountains—into a gorge whose story is written in stone. The park surrounding this natural wonder offers a symphony of sights, from towering cliffs to lush greenery, inviting visitors to explore its ancient secrets and vibrant life.
View of taughannock Falls from the South Rim Trail. Taughannock Falls New York State Park, Trumansburg, Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region
A Story Written in Stone The rocks of Taughannock Falls tell a story that stretches back 380 million years to the Devonian Period, a time when the region was submerged beneath a shallow inland sea. Layer upon layer of shale, sandstone, and limestone formed as sediment settled to the ocean floor, preserving the fossils of marine life that once thrived here. These rocks have endured the passage of eons, but the gorge itself is a far more recent creation.
Limestone Steps on the South Rim Trail descend to the gorge floor.
It was the retreat of the mighty Laurentide Ice Sheet, approximately 10,000 years ago, that set the stage for Taughannock’s grandeur. As glaciers melted, torrents of water carved the U-shaped valleys that now cradle the Finger Lakes. Taughannock Creek, a tributary of Cayuga Lake, began its work, etching its path through ancient rock, sculpting the gorge we see today. In just 10,000 years—a fleeting moment in geological time—the relentless force of water carved its way 3/4 of a mile upstream, creating the awe-inspiring chasm and waterfall that continue to evolve even now.
Taughannock Creek carved this landscape over thousands of years.
The Gorge’s Living Tapestry Beyond its geological wonders, Taughannock Falls State Park bursts with life. Along the North and South Rim Trails, Eastern Hemlocks (Tsuga canadensis) stand tall, their evergreen branches weaving shadows that dance across stone stairways and forest floors. These silent sentinels are habitats for myriad creatures and protectors of the delicate ecosystem.
Wildflowers were planted by park staff at the Falls Overlook. The bright yellow of Black-eyed Susans (Rudbeckia hirta) and the vibrant purple of Coneflowers (Echinacea purpurea) attract bees and butterflies, their nectar fueling the intricate web of life that thrives here. Along the trail, on the forest floor, mosses and ferns cling to rocks, softening the edges of the gorge with their verdant touch.
Cone FlowersCone Flowers gone to seedFrom a walk around Taughannock Falls State Park “Rim Trails” October 22nd, 2024. Trumansburg, Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region, New York State.
The Fall’s Eternal Dance At the heart of the park is the waterfall itself, its roar both a hymn and a whisper of time’s passage. The view from the North Rim Trail reveals the waterfall framed by steep cliffs, their striations like pages in a book written by water, wind, and time. The plunge pool below, shimmering in sunlight, seems almost sacred—a place where the forces of nature meet in harmony.
Viewed from the North Rim Trail on a summer morning. Taughannock Falls New York State Park, Trumansburg, Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region
Even as we marvel at its beauty, the falls are a reminder of the earth’s constant transformation. Each drop of water that cascades down the cliff face carries away tiny fragments of rock, continuing the slow, deliberate work of reshaping the land. What we witness today is but one moment in an ongoing process—a fleeting glimpse of a masterpiece in progress.
A Place of Wonder To stand at the edge of Taughannock Falls is to feel both small and connected. The cliffs, formed over hundreds of millions of years, whisper of ancient seas and forgotten worlds. The gorge, carved in the blink of an eye by geological standards, speaks to the power of water and time. And the vibrant life that fills the park reminds us of nature’s resilience and beauty.
As the sun filters through the trees, illuminating the mist that rises from the falls, it’s easy to believe that this place holds magic. Perhaps it’s in the way the water sparkles like diamonds in the sunlight or the way the breeze carries the scent of pine and earth. Or maybe it’s in the knowledge that here, in this park, we are witnesses to a story billions of years in the making.
Conclusion Taughannock Falls State Park is a place of wonder where geology, ecology, and history converge. It invites us to reflect on the immense forces that shape our world and to cherish the fleeting beauty of each moment. Whether you come to marvel at the towering waterfall, walk among the hemlocks, or simply stand in awe of the gorge, Taughannock Falls leaves an indelible mark on the heart—a reminder of nature’s power, resilience, and enduring grace.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
After 25 years of visiting Cocoa Beach, a discovery of coquina clams transformed my appreciation for the ecosystem, revealing its beauty, complexity, and intrinsic connections to life.
For nearly two and a half decades, I’ve strolled the sands of Cocoa Beach—since my first visit in March 2001—comforted by the rhythmic Atlantic waves and the familiar stretch of shoreline. I thought I knew this beach intimately; from the way the sunrise paints the water orange to the feel of wet sand under my feet. Yet it wasn’t until a clear morning in February 2025 that I recognized one of its tiniest treasures: the coquina clam. In the past, I might have walked past countless little shells and the tiny siphons and feet in the sand without a second glance. Now, with newfound awareness, I realize an entire world had been bustling at my toes all along.
February 2025: Discovering the Coquina Clams
Early one February morning, as the high tide receded, I noticed something magical happening at the water’s edge. Tiny coquina clams—each no larger than a fingernail—were emerging from the sand only to swiftly burrow down again between each wave.
These living coquina clams were found in the receeding high tide on a February 2025 morning on Cocoa Beach, Brevard County, Florida
Their small wedge-shaped shells, in colors of pastel pinks, purples, yellows, and whites, peeked out for a moment and then vanished, synchronized with the pulse of the ocean. It was as if the beach itself had come alive with confetti-like jewels, re-positioning themselves with every ebb and flow. I stood entranced, wondering how I’d missed this subtle dance for so many years. That morning marked the beginning of my quest to learn about these little clams that had been hiding in plain sight.
Life Beneath the Sand
Once my eyes were opened, I began observing and researching the coquina clams’ hidden world. I learned that each delicate clam is a filter feeder, siphoning in microscopic phytoplankton, algae, and organic particles from the surf. This constant filtering not only feeds the clam but also helps clean and clarify the coastal waters by removing excess nutrients. Coquinas live a fast-paced, transient life by necessity: they typically survive 1–2 years in the wild and can endure a mere few days without the ocean’s moving water.
No wonder they race to burrow when the waves recede—staying submerged is a matter of life and death, as they rely on the surf for both food and oxygen. In their brief lifespan, they continually ride the tides, migrate in swarms up and down the beach, and rebury themselves between each wave to avoid being swept away.
I found it astonishing that such small creatures possess the agility and tenacity to “surf” the waves and dig themselves back into wet sand within seconds, a graceful routine I had unknowingly witnessed that February morning.
Beyond their daily habits, coquina clams also undergo a remarkable life cycle beneath the sand. They spawn in the warmer months, releasing gametes into the water for external fertilization. The resulting larvae drift as plankton for a time before settling into the sand and metamorphosing into tiny clams. With no parental care to guide them these young coquinas must immediately fend for themselves in the surf zone. Perhaps it’s this independent, perilous beginning that drives them to cluster in large colonies—while they aren’t social in a communicative sense, hundreds of coquinas often live side by side in favorable spots, turning patches of wet sand into vibrant mosaics of color and life.
Walking the beach now, I recognize these patches: slightly raised, pebbly areas that, when a wave washes over, suddenly bristle with tiny siphons and feet as the clams feed and reposition. It’s humbling to realize that under each footstep, an entire hidden ecosystem of coquinas might be thriving.
Shells on the Shore: Beauty and Predation
With my new awareness, even the empty shells strewn along the high tide line told a story. I began to collect some of the colorful coquina shells scattered on the sand, marveling at their variety—no two looked exactly alike. Some were solid orange or yellow, others striped with purple and white, each as delicate as a butterfly wing. Many of these shells were intact, evidence of clams that had lived out their short lives or perhaps fallen prey to gentle endings. Others, however, bore mysterious perfectly round holes on their surfaces. At first glance, I thought a tiny drill had punched through them, and in a way, I was right. Those small holes are the signature of predatory snails that haunt the sands: creatures like moon snails (also known as shark’s-eye snails) and whelks that prey on coquinas by literally boring into their shells. These sand-dwelling snails wrap themselves around a clam and use a tongue-like organ called a radula—akin to a miniature saw—to drill a neat hole through the coquina’s shell, aided by acidic secretions to soften the calcium carbonate. Once the hole is complete, the snail devours the clam from within, leaving behind an empty, perforated shell as a grim calling card of the food chain in action.
Seeing those tiny “murder holes,” as beachcombers jokingly call them, on coquina shells transformed my perspective on the shell collections I had casually admired for years. Each shell in my hand represented a life that had been an integral part of the beach ecosystem. Some had been snatched by shorebirds or fish the instant they were exposed by the retreating tide, becoming breakfast for a sanderling or a pompano. Others, as the holes revealed, had been victims of an even stealthier predator under the sand. It struck me that every fragment and hollowed shell on the beach is evidence of a relationship—predator and prey, life and death intertwined on the shore. Instead of seeing a random assortment of pretty shells, I now saw a record of the beach’s vibrant food web written in calcium carbonate. The realization filled me with both wonder and respect: this sunny tourist beach holds quiet tales of survival as dramatic as any wilderness, if one knows where to look.
The Coquina’s Ecological Role
As I dug deeper (both into the sand and the literature), I discovered that coquina clams are far more than a footnote in the beach ecosystem—they are a keystone of coastal ecology. By filtering plankton and detritus from the surf, countless coquinas collectively act as tiny water purifiers, helping maintain water quality along the shore. Their presence in large numbers indicates a beach’s health; in fact, abundant coquina populations signal that the beach environment is robust and unspoiled. A stretch of sand teeming with coquina clams suggests natural, shifting sands and minimal human interference, as these clams thrive best where coastal processes remain undisturbed. In this way, coquinas are like a barometer for the shoreline: if I continue to find them at Cocoa Beach, it means the beach is still alive and supporting complex life.
Coquina clams also form a critical link in the food chain. Numerous shorebirds rely on them as a food source—those flocks of little sandpipers and plovers skittering at the water’s edge have, all along, been feasting on coquinas right under my nose. Fish that patrol the surf, like the Florida pompano and various kinds of drum (whiting), gulp them up as the waves churn the sand.
These coquina clam shells were found February 2025 on Cocoa Beach, Brevard County, Florida
Even ghost crabs and other scavengers benefit, feeding on clams that wash ashore. And of course, the predatory snails under the sand have a specialized taste for them. It’s a reminder that even a creature only an inch long can be a cornerstone of an entire food web, sustaining animals up the chain from mollusks to birds to fish. Standing on the beach now, I often pause and watch the frenetic chase of the shorebirds in the surf, aware that without the coquina clams beneath the foam, that familiar coastal ballet could cease to exist.
Humanity and the Coquina: Intertwined Histories
It’s not only animals that have interacted with coquina clams—we humans have a longstanding relationship with them as well. Historically, Floridians made use of coquinas as a food source. Local folklore and old recipes describe coquina broth and chowder, a delicate soup made by briefly boiling these tiny clams to extract their flavor.
Because each clam is so small, you’d need hundreds to make a pot of soup, so it’s not a common dish today except perhaps as a novelty. Still, the idea that the sands I walk on could literally be cooked into a chowder is a charming and earthy connection between food and place. Early indigenous peoples and European settlers alike would have recognized coquinas as an edible bounty in times when every bit of protein counted.
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Humans have also found value in the shells of coquinas beyond admiring their beauty. Over time, vast deposits of coquina shells on ancient beaches hardened into a soft limestone rock called coquina stone (the term “coquina” itself comes from the Spanish for “shellfish” or “cockle,” reflecting its composition).
In a fascinating twist of fate, this sedimentary rock—essentially millions of fused clam shells—became a building material. Here in Florida, coquina stone was quarried and used to construct some of our oldest structures. The historic fortifications in St. Augustine, like Fort Matanzas and Castillo de San Marcos, were built from coquina stone, their walls made resilient by a matrix of coquina clam shells.
I find it poetic that the same little clams I only just learned to appreciate have literally been the building blocks of human shelters that have stood for centuries. Even today, crushed coquina shells are used in landscaping and as decorative ground cover—perhaps you’ve seen driveways or garden paths that gleam with fragments of pink and purple shells.
Our lives overlap with the coquina in subtle ways: from the architecture of coastal Florida to the aesthetics of our beach towns.
Modern conservationists note another connection: by protecting natural beach dynamics, we also protect coquina populations, which in turn supports the whole ecosystem. This means being mindful about coastal development, beach renourishment projects, and even how many shells tourists collect. I’ve become more aware that picking up a few pretty coquina shells as souvenirs is fine, but we must leave plenty behind for the beach to recycle and for other creatures to use. For example shorebirds glean minerals from them. The humble coquina clam has given me a new appreciation for how intimately tied human activity is to the smallest inhabitants of the shore.
Reflections: Wonder in the Little Things
My journeys to Cocoa Beach were enhanced: what began as a casual observation in 2025 has blossomed into a profound shift in the way I experience the beach. I feel as if I’ve been given new eyes—now I notice the glint of tiny shells in the sand and know there’s life (or a story of life) attached to each one. The joy of discovery I felt upon noticing the coquina clams has reignited a childlike curiosity in me. It’s astounding that after decades of visits, there was still a secret to uncover on those familiar shores. This realization makes me wonder: What else have I been missing? It’s a reminder that nature has layers upon layers of wonder, even in places we think we know intimately. Sometimes it just takes a shift in perspective, a bit of knowledge, or a quiet moment of attention to peel back the veil.
In reflecting on the coquina clams of Cocoa Beach, I’ve learned not only about a specific species and its role in the world, but also about myself and the value of lifelong learning. These clams, in their smallness and ubiquity, taught me to slow down and appreciate the intricate tapestry of life at my feet. Now, each time I visit the beach, I smile seeing the waves bring in that rush of foam and sand, knowing a hidden troupe of coquinas is hard at work filtering water, dodging predators, and holding up the very balance of the shore. I often kneel down now, running my fingers gently through the wet sand to feel them retreat, and I silently thank them — for cleaning the water, for feeding the birds and fish, for building historic forts (unbeknownst to themselves), and for showing me that wonder can be found in the smallest of places. Cocoa Beach, through the lens of the coquina clam, feels like a brand new world I’ve been lucky enough to discover, even after all these years
I look forward to other hidden marvels awaiting discovery on my next visit.
References
Abbott, R. T. (1974). American Seashells: The Marine Mollusca of the Atlantic and Pacific Coasts of North America. Van Nostrand Reinhold Company.
Andrews, J. (1994). Shells and Shores of Texas. University of Texas Press.
Brusca, R. C., & Brusca, G. J. (2003). Invertebrates (2nd ed.). Sinauer Associates.
Denny, M., & Gaines, S. (2000). Encyclopedia of Tidepools and Rocky Shores. University of California Press.
Futch, C. R., & Burger, J. (1976). The ecology of coquina clams (Donax variabilis) in the southeastern United States. Marine Biology Journal, 34(2), 157-168.
Leal, J. H. (2002). Seashells of Southern Florida: Living Marine Mollusks of the Florida Keys and Adjacent Regions. Smithsonian Institution Press.
Mikkelsen, P. M., & Bieler, R. (2008). Seashells of Southern Florida: Marine Bivalves, The Bivalvia. Princeton University Press.
Morton, B. (1988). Particulate Matter Processing in Bivalves: An Overview. Journal of Marine Ecology, 19(3), 103-123.
Ruppert, E. E., Fox, R. S., & Barnes, R. D. (2004). Invertebrate Zoology: A Functional Evolutionary Approach (7th ed.). Cengage Learning.
Stanley, S. M. (1970). Relation of shell form to life habits of the Bivalvia. Geological Society of America Memoir, 125, 1-296.
Voss, G. L. (1980). Seashells of the Gulf and Atlantic Coasts. Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.
Wells, H. W., & Gray, I. E. (1960). Habitat selection and the distribution of the coquina clam (Donax variabilis). Ecological Monographs, 30(1), 55-77.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
The evening ebb tide had left behind more than just a fresh line of seaweed and broken shells. As I walked along Cocoa Beach, the cool sand beneath my feet, a small shape caught my eye near the water’s edge. At first, it looked like detritus tossed ashore by the restless ocean. But as I stepped closer, I saw the unmistakable outline of a shark—its pale, twitching body lay on the damp sand.
Stopping to bend and examine it, my breath caught as I recognized its flattened, shovel-shaped head. This was a bonnethead shark (Sphyrna tiburo), one of the smallest members of the hammerhead family. Its eyes, positioned far apart on either side of its head, stared blankly at the sky. A thin film of seawater still clung to its sleek, streamlined body, reflecting the golden light of the rising sun.
Its scientific name, Sphyrna tiburo, reveals much about its nature and form. Sphyrna comes from the Greek σφῦρα (sphyra), meaning “hammer,” a fitting reference to the distinct shape shared by all hammerhead sharks. The species name, tiburo, is thought to have originated from an indigenous or Spanish term for small sharks found in the Caribbean and Gulf of Mexico. Together, these words encapsulate the bonnethead’s identity—a hammer-shaped predator of the shallow seas, yet one that stands apart from its larger, more formidable relatives.
Named for its distinctive cephalofoil—the flattened, bonnet-like shape of its head—Sphyrna tiburo plays an essential role in maintaining the balance of marine ecosystems. As a mid-level predator, it helps regulate populations of crabs, shrimp, and small fish, preventing any one species from overpopulating and disrupting the delicate food web. Unlike most sharks, the bonnethead is also partially omnivorous, consuming seagrass along with its usual diet of crustaceans and mollusks. This unique feeding behavior contributes to the health of seagrass beds, which serve as crucial habitats for many marine creatures.
Bonnetheads are harmless to humans, known for their non-aggressive nature and their surprising diet—unlike most sharks, they eat not just crustaceans and fish, but seagrass as well. Gentle foragers of the shallows, they are common in Florida’s coastal waters, where they glide just beneath the surface, their unique head shape helping them detect prey buried beneath the sand.
But this one would swim no more. It was too late. Whether it had fallen victim to a fisherman’s discarded catch, an injury, or something unseen—disease, pollution, or fluctuating ocean temperatures—it was impossible to tell. All I knew was that this creature, so perfectly adapted to the rhythms of the sea, had been cast ashore by forces beyond its control.
A wave surged forward, washing over the shark’s still body, as if the ocean itself fruitlessly nudged it to life. The rising tide swirled, lifting the bonnethead and carrying it back into its world.
As I stood watching the tide pull it away, I felt a strange mix of sorrow and reverence. The sea is full of life, but it also takes life in its endless cycle. The bonnethead had played its part in that vast, unknowable story.
And now, it was gone.
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Seen from Stewart Park, these lakefront homes line the southern shore of Cayuga Lake. Tompkins County, Ithaca, New York State. The Finger Lakes Region
On a warm June morning, with the early summer sun casting a golden glow across the shores of Cayuga Lake, Pam and I set out for a walk around Stewart Park. The soft lapping of the water against the shore mixed with the calls of distant birds, and the familiar hum of life in the park settled into a rhythm that has long been a part of this place. As I strolled along a familiar path, a flash of orange caught my eye—the unmistakable brilliance of the Hemerocallis fulva, the Tawny Daylily, in full bloom.
A Glimpse of the Familiar
At first glance, the orange petals of the daylily seemed like small flames scattered across the green of the park, their brightness undimmed by the heat of the day. The sight was both familiar and captivating, for these daylilies are common in garden, parks and roadsides around Ithaca and much of New York State. Despite their prevalence, each encounter feels fresh, like meeting an old friend who always has something new to share.
I knelt closer, letting my eyes follow the curve of the petals, which unfurled gracefully from a vibrant yellow throat. The delicate lines streaked down the petals like rays of sunlight. Though each flower lives only a day, I felt the quiet confidence of this plant, as though it knew its bloom was fleeting, yet still essential in the tapestry of summer.
The Resilience of a Traveler
The daylily’s ubiquity belies its status as a traveler from distant lands. Hemerocallis fulva is not native to New York, nor to any part of North America. It came to these shores from Asia, introduced by gardeners who admired its hardiness and vibrant color. Over time, the daylily escaped the bounds of cultivated gardens, spreading to roadsides, fields, and yes, even here, to the edges of Stewart Park.
I find myself reflecting on the journey of this plant, which began in the faraway lands of China, Korea, and Japan. In its homeland, daylilies have long been symbols of devotion and motherhood, their roots used in traditional medicine, their blooms celebrated in art. Now, as I stand in Stewart Park, I marvel at how far the Hemerocallis fulva has come, adapting to new lands and naturalizing in the wild corners of the American landscape.
The irony of its “wild” appearance does not escape me—this orange beauty, so deeply associated with our rural and parkland settings, is still very much an outsider. And yet, in the soft breeze of the morning, it feels as though this plant has always belonged here, as much a part of the park’s landscape as the willows by the lake or the ducks bobbing in the water.
Nature’s Balancing Act
As lovely as they are, daylilies are not without their complications. The very same traits that make Hemerocallis fulva such a beloved garden plant—its resilience, its ability to thrive in poor soil, and its spreading rhizomes—also make it an unintentional invader. Without careful tending, these plants can spread aggressively, pushing out native species and altering the ecological balance of the areas where they take root.
Here in Stewart Park, where cultivated gardens meet the untamed edges of the lake, the daylilies are a reminder of nature’s delicate balance. They offer nectar to bees and butterflies, providing sustenance to the creatures that flit through the morning air and also represent challenge to the native wildflowers that have long called this place home.
I wonder what plants might have once thrived in this very spot before the Hemerocallis fulva arrived. Perhaps native species, like the delicate Asclepias tuberosa—Butterfly Weed—or the sturdy Rudbeckia hirta, the Black-eyed Susan, held court here, their blooms attracting the same bees now drawn to the daylilies.
The Fleeting Bloom
Despite its role as a naturalized non-native, the daylily has a fleeting grace that draws me in. By tomorrow, these orange blooms will have withered and fallen, replaced by new blossoms that will unfurl in their place. Each bloom’s brief life is a reminder of the ephemerality of beauty, and I find myself appreciating the daylily all the more for its transient nature.
We continue our walk, leaving behind the patch of daylilies but taking with me a sense of quiet reflection. As invasive as they may be, these plants offer a meditation on the impermanence of life and the ways in which non-native species can become a part of the landscape’s fabric, for better or worse. The Hemerocallis fulva may not belong here by birthright, but it has made a place for itself, a symbol of survival and adaptation in the ever-changing world around it.
A Lesson from the Daylily
As I near the edge of the lake, watching the sunlight dance across the water’s surface, I think about the lessons that the daylily offers. Life is fleeting, yes, but also full of color and vibrancy, no matter how brief the bloom. And in that brief bloom, there is the possibility of resilience, growth, and belonging, even in a place far from home.
Much like the daylily, we too find ourselves in unfamiliar places at times, learning to adapt, to thrive, and to leave our mark on the world—if only for a day.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
Crossing the footbridge in Stewart Park, I encountered the graceful yet invasive Flowering Rush. Its delicate beauty hides a deeper story about nature’s resilience, human impact, and the fragile balance of our ecosystems.
While crossing the suspension footbridge over Fall Creek in Stewart Park, there’s a sense of stepping into a world that’s more peaceful and attuned to nature. The bridge is familiar to me—a steady, quiet companion—but each visit feels new, as though the park has secrets it only reveals in small whispers. In this photograph the green steel beams rise like sentinels, standing tall against the backdrop of shifting autumn colors. Below, the water reflects the vibrant reds, golds, and greens of the trees, creating an illusion of depth that draws me in.
Footbridge to the Fuertes Bird Sanctuary, Stewart Park, Ithaca, New York, October 2012
This past summer I stopped midway across, leaned against the railing, just listening. The creek moved slowly, like time itself decided to pause here for a while. That’s when I saw them: delicate pink blooms rising up from the water’s edge, their petals small and star-shaped, catching the light as they sway in the gentle breeze. There’s something striking about these plants—graceful, elegant, almost otherworldly in their simplicity. They reach up, as though trying to escape the confines of the water and the muddy banks.
My subsequent research revealed these to be Flowering Rush, or Butomus umbellatus. I often see them now, their soft pinks and slender leaves creating a quiet beauty that’s hard to ignore. They’re beautiful, but I have come to know they don’t belong here. This is one of those moments in nature that gives me pause—a reminder that not everything lovely is innocent.
Flowering Rush Growing in Fall Creek, Stewart Park, June 2024
Flowering Rush, a European import from centuries ago, was not meant to take root here. Brought to North America for ornamental ponds, its allure quickly became its danger. It spread, silently, like a secret carried on the wind, slowly overtaking the native species that have long called these waters home. And yet, standing here now, I cannot help but admire its tenacity, its quiet determination to thrive. Nature, in all its forms, has this incredible will to survive, even if that survival sometimes comes at a cost.
My mind drifts to the plant’s history. In its native lands Flowering Rush, or Grass Rush, was useful—its roots, though bitter, were harvested for food, and its fibrous stems woven into mats and ropes. How interesting that something as delicate as this has a rugged, practical side. This contradiction makes perfect sense when I think of the plant’s journey across continents, carried over oceans by human hands and curiosity. We are responsible for its presence here, and now, like so many other invasive species, it’s become a fixture of this landscape.
I think about the dual nature of this invasion. Flowering Rush is beautiful—there is no denying that. Its soft, pink flowers contrast sharply with the darker tones of the water and the dense green of the grasses that surround it. But its beauty masks a quiet destruction. It chokes out the native plants that once thrived here, altering the ecosystem in ways we cannot always see. I wonder what fish and aquatic life struggles beneath the surface, their food sources slowly disappearing. What birds find fewer insects and fewer safe places to nest?
And yet, is this plant a villain? Flowering rush is doing what it was meant to do—grow, spread, survive. That is what everything in nature does, after all. It does not have malice or intent; it just is. It is humans who have changed the balance, who introduced this species to a place where it didn’t belong, setting off a chain reaction we’re still trying to fully understand.
Today, as I walk across the bridge, heading toward the Fuertes Bird Sanctuary, path ahead invites quiet reflection, the chirping of birds and the rustle of leaves providing a peaceful soundtrack. But the Flowering Rush lingers in my mind. It reminds me of how interconnected everything is, how one small action—a plant brought from a distant land—can ripple out and affect entire ecosystems. It’s a lesson in responsibility for those willing to listen.
As I step into the sanctuary, the air feels lighter, filled with the sound of birds that dart between the trees. I think of the delicate balance of life here, and how easily it can be disrupted by the presence of something foreign, something invasive. Yet, there is a strange comfort in knowing that nature, for all its fragility, has its own resilience.
The Flowering Rush, with its roots deep in the muddy banks of Fall Creek, is a testament to that resilience. It may not belong here, but it has found a way to adapt, to make this place its home. And in that, I find both a warning and a kind of hope—hope that we, too, can learn to live more thoughtfully, more in tune with the world around us, before we upset the balance any further.
For now, though, I simply walk, grateful for the beauty around me, even if it comes with complications. Each step takes me deeper into this world, and I am reminded once again of the profound connection we have to the land, the water, the plants, and the creatures that share this space.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
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Contemplate the quiet sorrow of a summer without monarchs. Click on the photo to read the full story and reflect on this profound sense of loss on my blog.
This past summer, an absence visited our garden—a loss more profound than the quieting of wind. It was the virtual silence of an empty sky where monarch butterflies should have danced. Each day, we waited, hoping to catch a glimpse of those delicate wings, vibrant with orange and black, fluttering above the milkweed. But the familiar sight never came.
Monarch butterflies, those ethereal creatures that once graced our summers, seemed to have forgotten us.
Macro of the Monarch butterfly chrysalis. The black stalk attached to the silk pad is call a cremaster.
The photograph of the monarch chrysalis, a delicate gem hanging on a thread of life, speaks to the fragility of nature itself. Each chrysalis is a promise—a quiet, patient promise of transformation and renewal. Yet this summer, those promises vanished, leaving us to wonder where the monarchs had gone, what changes in the world pulled them away from our home in the Finger Lakes.
Our first monarch butterfly of 2023 just after emergence from the chrysalis and after wing expansion. This female will hang for several hours while the wings dry.
Another image from a time not so long ago, yet now seeming distant, shows a monarch caterpillar nestled among the milkweed blossoms. This was a time when our garden was alive with their presence, each caterpillar a testament to the cycle of life that once thrived here. The sight of them devouring the leaves was a sign of hope, a prelude to the transformation that would soon unfold. Now, that vibrant energy has vanished, leaving behind a quiet that speaks of loss and absence.
We are left to reflect on this silence, on the empty milkweed leaves and the air where monarchs once flew. The memories of summers past, when the monarchs filled our garden with their grace, are bittersweet now. They remind us of a time when the connection between the earth and its creatures was still intact, when the balance of nature had not yet been so precariously tipped.
In their absence, the monarchs leave behind a message—a reminder that their delicate beauty is not guaranteed, that the balance we once took for granted can be lost. The summer without monarchs urges us to look inward, to consider what must change, what must be protected, so that future summers may once again be filled with the fluttering of wings and the promise of life renewed.
The garden absence this year is a call to action, a plea from the earth itself to remember the delicate threads that connect us all. May we answer that call, so that this summer of loss will not reach into the future, but will be a pause, a moment of reflection before the return of the monarchs, and with them, the return of hope.
Request to my North American readers: leave comments exploring your experiences of Monarch butterflies the summer of 2024
Here are links to more Monarch photographs and videos.
In the final bloom of the season, a honeybee’s delicate dance with the Queen of the Night captures the fleeting beauty of nature’s cycles. Discover the profound connection between flower, bee, and life’s rhythms.
The Epiphyllum oxypetalum, commonly known as the Queen of the Night, is a remarkable plant. Native to Central America, this epiphyte is known for its large, fragrant flowers that bloom only once a year and last just for a single night. The fleeting nature of its bloom makes it a symbol of transience and beauty in many cultures. For me, this flower is a quiet, intimate connection to the rhythms of nature that play out around our home in Ithaca, New York.
The images you see include the last flower of the season, a white starburst of delicate petals encasing a universe of intricate details. As the day progresses, the flower remains open, revealing the next chapter in its life cycle—the possibility of forming fruit. This potential is entirely dependent on pollination, a process that is both beautifully simple and astonishingly complex.
A honeybee, a tiny yet essential participant in the grand scheme of things, hovers and lands delicately on the flower. In the first image, the bee appears tentative, exploring the outer fringes of the flower’s central structures. Its wings are still, as if it has just touched down after a careful, deliberate approach. The stamens, like a thousand arms extended in welcome, offer their pollen. Each grain of pollen is a promise, a potential seed, carried with the hope of propagation. The bee is the flower’s messenger, moving from one bloom to another, ensuring the continuity of life.
As I observe the bee’s actions through these photographs, I can’t help but reflect on the importance of these small creatures. Their work often goes unnoticed, yet without them, our ecosystems would collapse. The honeybee, in particular, has been a focus of concern in recent years due to declining populations, largely attributed to human activities. But here, in my garden, this bee is simply going about its day, unaware of the broader implications of its existence. It is focused on the task at hand, a model of mindfulness in action.
In the second and third images, the bee has moved deeper into the flower, its body now dusted with pollen. It is fully engaged in its work, undeterred by the enormity of its task. The pink style of the flower contrasts sharply with the white petals and the yellow stamens, creating a vibrant tableau of life. The bee’s body is now part of this scene, its presence both functional and aesthetic. It is not just a visitor; it is an integral part of the flower’s story.
The fourth and fifth images capture the culmination of the bee’s efforts. Having gathered what it came for, the bee is ready to move on, its job done here. The flower, too, has fulfilled its role for the season. The energy it expended to produce this magnificent bloom will now be directed towards forming fruit, provided that the pollination process is successful. If it is, this single flower will give rise to a new generation of plants, continuing the cycle of life.
But there is another, more personal layer to this story. This is the last flower of the season. It carries with it the weight of finality, the knowledge that soon the plant will rest, conserving its energy for the next year’s bloom. As I contemplate this, I am reminded of the cycles that govern not just plant life, but all life. There is a time for blooming, a time for fruiting, and a time for rest. Each phase is essential, each one a preparation for the next.
A bonus view of the honeybee in action
In allowing this flower to form fruit, I am participating, in a small way, in this cycle. We are stewards of the natural world, responsible for nurturing and preserving the life forms that share our planet. The honeybee, the flower, and I are all connected in this intricate web of life, each playing our part in the unfolding drama of existence.
These photographs are a meditation on life, a reminder of the beauty and fragility of the world around us. They capture a moment in time, brief encounters between a flower and a bee, but they also speak to something larger, something timeless. The Epiphyllum oxypetalum may bloom for just one night, but its impact, like that of the honeybee, reverberates far beyond that brief window. And in that, there is a profound lesson for all of us.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
Discover the secret world of mallards in Ithaca’s Cass Park: a drake and hen dance upon the water’s surface, inviting you into the fleeting magic of a vernal pool. Join their springtime sojourn.
The image provided offers a tranquil glimpse into the natural world, capturing two mallard ducks—a drake and a hen—as they forage for food in a vernal pool. Vernal pools are temporary bodies of water that provide critical habitat for a variety of wildlife during the early spring. Mallards (Anas platyrhynchos), with their iconic coloration and widespread presence across the globe, are among the most recognizable and adaptable of waterfowl, making use of these ephemeral waterscapes.
Birding Trail near Cass Park, a pair of Mallard ducks in breeding plumage feed in a vernal pool the inlet of Cayuga Lake in the background.
Significance of Vernal Pools
Vernal pools are unique wetlands that usually form in the spring from melting snow and spring rainfall. These pools are crucial for the breeding of certain species of amphibians, insects, and provide essential resources for birds like mallards. In the image, the ducks take advantage of the abundance of food such as aquatic invertebrates that thrive in these undisturbed waters, showcasing the importance of these habitats in supporting biodiversity.
A Closer Look at the Mallards’ Habitat
A male and female mallard (Anas platyrhynchos) feeding in a vernal pool along the Cayuga Waterfront Trail near Union Fields.
The photo depicts the ducks in a natural setting that speaks volumes about their environment. The surrounding dry grasses indicate a transition from the dormancy of winter to the burgeoning life of spring. The reflection of leafless trees in the water hints at an ecosystem on the cusp of renewal. This setting is not only a feeding ground for the ducks but also a haven that provides shelter and protection from predators.
The Mallards’ Spring Behavior
Mallards are known for their migratory patterns, often traveling to warmer climates during the winter and returning to their breeding grounds in the spring. The ducks in the photo are likely partaking in a crucial phase of their life cycle—feeding and preparing for the breeding season ahead. Their presence in the vernal pool is a testament to their resilience and adaptability as they utilize a wide range of habitats to meet their needs.
Conservation and the Future
While mallard ducks are not currently endangered, the conservation of their habitats, like vernal pools, is vital for the continued health of their populations and the greater ecosystem. Such habitats are under threat from urban development, pollution, and climate change. It’s imperative that we recognize the importance of preserving these natural resources, not only for mallards but for all species that depend on them.
Conclusion: Reflections on Nature’s Cycles
The photo invites reflection on the cycles of nature and the interconnectedness of species and their environments. It serves as a reminder that the arrival of mallards at a vernal pool is not just a sign of spring, but a marker of the health of our natural world. As the seasons change, so too do the opportunities for life to thrive, guided by the rhythms of the Earth and the behaviors of its inhabitants. The mallards, in their simple act of feeding, become symbols of continuity and the delicate balance of ecosystems.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
Discover the resilient beauty of Florida’s dune sunflowers through the eyes of a beachcomber. Uncover the secrets of Helianthus debilis, a symbol of hope thriving where sea meets sand. Join the coastal dance of life.
Strolling along the beachfront of Patrick Space Force Base, Florida, my gaze is captivated by a cluster of dune sunflowers, or Helianthus debilis. These hardy perennials are native to the coastal sand dunes of the southeastern United States and have made a home amidst the sandy grains where few dare to take root.
The Sunflower’s Domain
Helianthus debilis, distinguished by its large, yellow ray florets and dark center disks, thrives in this challenging environment. The dunes provide a unique ecosystem, where the sunflowers can withstand high salinity, shifting sands, and the full force of the sun’s rays. Their deep root systems anchor the sandy soil, helping to prevent erosion and maintain the integrity of the dune landscape.
Adaptation and Survival
The dune sunflower’s adaptation to its coastal environment is a marvel of nature. Its silvery-green leaves are covered with tiny hairs, reflecting sunlight and conserving moisture. The flowers bloom throughout the year, ensuring a constant presence of color along the dunes. Their hardiness is a testament to the sunflower’s evolutionary success in a habitat where freshwater is scarce and the soil is nutrient-poor.
A Native’s Role in the Ecosystem
As a native species, the dune sunflower plays a crucial role in the coastal ecosystem. It serves as a food source for local wildlife, including insects and birds, and its presence helps stabilize dune formations. The ecological value of Helianthus debilis extends beyond its beauty, as it contributes to the biodiversity and resilience of the coastal dunes.
The Dynamics of Dune Life
The life of a dune sunflower is inextricably linked to the ebb and flow of the coastal environment. Each plant is a microhabitat, supporting a range of organisms from the larvae of the dune butterfly to the burrowing beetles that find refuge in the sand. The interaction between the sunflowers and these creatures creates a dynamic web of life, each species depending on the others for survival.
Reflections on Resilience
The dune sunflower’s ability to flourish in such an austere environment is a profound reminder of the resilience of nature. As I observe the sunflowers, I am struck by their tenacity, their willingness to face the elements head-on. They are a beacon of life in a place where existence is a daily challenge, and their perseverance is a lesson in the art of endurance.
Conclusion: A Testament to Nature’s Ingenuity
As the sun begins to set, casting a warm glow over the dunes, I take a final look at the Helianthus debilis. Their scientific wonders and ecological im portance leave a lasting impression. They are not just flowers; they are a testament to nature’s ingenuity, an embodiment of the delicate balance between life and the environment. These dune sunflowers are a symbol of hope, a reminder that in the face of adversity, life finds a way to not just survive, but to thrive.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
Michael Stephen Wills Photography 