Tag: nature essay

“Great Blue Herons at Cocoa Beach: A Space Coast Morning on the Atlantic

Along the luminous seam of surf and sand, a heron reads the tide’s slow grammar, patience embodied, until water yields a silver secret and morning becomes ceremony.

MichaelStephenWills19 Comments

We walk the long seam where the Atlantic writes its restless script, and our beachcombing becomes a study in attention. The shore’s edge—where foam loosens shells from sand and the wind arranges salt on the tongue—draws other walkers too: grey herons, patient and arrow-straight, patrolling the surf line as if reading a language older than tides. They halt us without trying. We stand, quieted, while they work the boundary between water and land, between hunger and satisfaction.

I pack an iPhone sometimes for beachcombing as a lightweight alternative to SLRs. This post features iPhone photographs.

Along this narrow world of sand and surf, herons keep two distinct manners. Some linger near anglers, learning the thrift of handouts and the craft of appearing inevitable. Others refuse that bargain and hunt on their own, staking the wash with a slowness that is not delay but method. These independent operators move along the ocean’s margin: high enough to let the breakers fold ahead of them, low enough that their long legs stir the small lives hidden in the cross-hatching currents. To follow one with the eye is to adopt a different clock. Sandpipers skitter and dash; the heron lengthens time.

A perfect place to stalk the surf

At first the bird seems merely spellbound by light on water. Then a shift: a narrow cant of the head, the smallest realignment of the eye to the glare. The neck—serpentine and stored with intention—uncoils quick as a strike, and the bill cleaves the surface. The world either yields or it doesn’t. Often it doesn’t. When it does, the beak lifts an impossibly large, glinting fish, as if the ocean had lent out a secret.

Success!!

What follows is ceremony. The heron stands and calibrates, turning the silver length with almost invisible nods until head and prize agree. A sharp jerk aligns the fish with beak and gullet; the upper throat swells, accepting the whole, unchewed. Two more pulses and the catch is a memory traveling inward. It is an astonishment every time, not because we do not understand what is happening but because we do, and still it exceeds us.

We carry a smart phone on these morning circuits, a slim stand-in for heavier glass, enough to witness without intruding. Backlit by the early sun, the herons are cut from bronze and shadow, working the luminous edge while the day composes itself behind them. In the afternoons we meet fewer of the solitary hunters when the strand belongs more to the opportunists near the thinning knots of anglers. Why the shift, we cannot say. The ocean has its schedule; so, it seems, do its readers.

If we keep our distance, we are permitted to watch. Cross a line we don’t perceive and the bird will rise all at once, the long body unfolding, the voice a rasping scold torn from the throat of reed beds and marsh dawns; but, grant it enough space, and the heron returns us to the lesson it keeps teaching: that patience is a kind of movement; that the boundary of things is where change is clearest; that the most astonishing acts require the courage to do very little, very well, for a long time.

We come to linger where the waves erase our tracks, apprenticed to that slow grammar, trying to learn the tide’s careful verbs before the light turns and the day becomes something else—a different text, the same shore, the heron already a thin signature against the horizon.

Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.

Stargazing Winter’s Crab: Watching the 2019 Total Lunar Eclipse Near Cancer’s Beehive Cluster

Join me as a full moon slips into Earth’s shadow, turning copper beside Cancer’s Beehive—science, illusion, and wonder entwined in a winter night.

MichaelStephenWills23 Comments

Colored lights of our skies are lifelong triggers for the imagination. On any moonless, crystal night—far from the town-glow—three thousand or so stars and the wandering planets scatter across the dark. We read them instinctively, stitching patterns the way our ancestors did, turning a brilliant chaos into stories. Along the ecliptic, twelve of those patterns became the constellations, a starry calendar by which careful observers told the seasons. When Cancer, the Crab rides high, winter has the northern hemisphere in its grip

Click Photograph for my OnLine Galleries
Click photograph for my OnLine Galleries. Clicking the other photographs in this post will yield a larger image.

On the night of January 20–21, 2019, a full moon climbed from the horizon and slid into Earth’s shadow, transforming a familiar face into a copper coin. As it rose, that low-horizon “larger” moon—an illusion born of context—felt close enough to pocket. Hours later, the moon darkened to a dull copper color and appeared to float amid Cancer’s dim stars.

I set up a Canon DSLR on a tripod with a 24mm f/1.4 lens, pushed the ISO to 3200, and shortened the exposure to 1.3 seconds—a compromise between freezing star points and preserving the feel of the sky. The moon, of course, was overexposed in that wide frame; later, I overlaid a correctly exposed moon (from a telephoto shot later in the night) at its true apparent size to match the scene as the eye saw it. Is it the most “technical” astrophotograph of the eclipse? No. But it is faithful to the moment I witnessed and good enough to carry the story forward.

The Moon on the Crab’s back

Cancer is never an easy connect-the-dots. Its stars are modest, more suggestion than signature. Look just to the side of the moon’s position that night and you come to Delta Cancri, the orange giant nicknamed the Southern Donkey. Draw a mental line down and slightly right to the faint pair Nu and Gamma Cancri—white stars that only masquerade as twins. They are not physically bound, merely near each other by line of sight: Nu about 390 light-years away, Gamma at 181. Scatter in Alpha and Beta off the Crab’s back and the outline becomes more plausible, the way a minimal sketch becomes a creature once the eye knows what to look for.

The Beehive

Between Nu and Gamma, edged closer to the moon, lies the real prize: the Beehive Cluster—also known as Praesepe or M44. Even with modest binoculars, Praesepe explodes into a field of delicate sparks, a thousand stars loosely wrapped into a hive. Galileo famously turned his early telescope on this cloud and teased forty separate points from the mist; modern optics reveal a populous neighborhood of stellar siblings in shades from ice-blue to ember-red. It is one of those sights that converts a casual sky-gazer into a repeat offender.

Click for more information about this view

Click photograph for a higher resolution version
Total Lunar Eclipse and Surrounding Sky with labels for primary element of the Cancer constellation

Later in the night I lifted the telephoto—70–300mm at 300mm, ISO 3200, 3.2 seconds—and let the moon fill more of the frame. At totality, the light thinned to a clay-jar red as Earth’s atmosphere bent sunlight around the planet and into its shadow. The effect is both simple and profound: every sunset on Earth happening at once, projected onto the moon’s face. Craters and maria softened into relief, and the globe stopped being a flat disk and became a round, ancient body again. Even without Delta, Gamma, Nu, and the Beehive in that tighter field, the sense of placement remained; I knew the Crab’s back was there in the dark, and that the moon had joined it—just for an hour—as a guest at the manger.

Click photograph for a higher resolution image
“Beehive” with Total Lunar Eclipse with labels for primary elements of Cancer Constellation

The Total Eclipse

What I love most about an eclipse is its pace. Nothing is impatient: the bite appears, the light drains, the color warms, and the world around you changes temperament. As the bright glare wanes, neighborhood sounds recalibrate—the hush between footfalls, the small click of a door, even the steadying breath you didn’t know you were holding. A total lunar eclipse is an astronomy lesson that behaves like a poem; it teaches by arranging time and light until awe and understanding meet.

Click photograph for larger image

And then, quietly, it returns what it borrowed. A thin wedge of white blooms at one edge, a rehearsal for dawn. Copper gives way to pearl, and the old moon looks new again, just higher and smaller against the deepening night. Cancer recedes into suggestion; Praesepe goes back to being a faint cloud to the unaided eye. The camera is packed away, the tripod shoulders its own shadow, and you keep the best exposure of the night where it can’t be corrupted: in memory.

Click photograph for larger image

If you have binoculars, mark Cancer on a winter chart and step outside when the sky is clear. Find Delta, sweep toward the dim pair of Nu and Gamma, and then rest your gaze on that hazy patch between them. Bring a friend into the circle and let the cluster resolve, star by star, into something alive with depth. It will not be the last time you look for it. And if you’re lucky enough, as we were that January, the moon will pass nearby, reminding you that even the most familiar companion can be made strange and beautiful by the turn of a shadow.

The sky is a storybook, yes—but also an instrument. Nights like this tune both.

Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.

Blood Moon Reflections: Science, Illusion, and Shared Awe Under the Lunar Eclipse

We gather on the balcony as a total lunar eclipse turns the moon to copper—science, illusion, and shared wonder braid a night of luminous change.

MichaelStephenWills31 Comments

Moonrise

On certain evenings we gather on our Cocoa Beach, Florida east-facing beach-side balcony simply to watch the day undo itself—sunset staining the western sky while, behind us, something quieter begins. On Sunday, January 20, 2019, the quiet had a name: a total lunar eclipse. I’d checked the online charts earlier—moonrise time, azimuth, the patient geometry of the heavens laid out in numbers—and set our chairs faced the anticipated spectacle.

Click photograph for my Online Gallery


The light went a little pewter, as it does when the sun slides offstage and the world inhales. Out on the water a cruise ship shouldered south, a floating city of windows that, under ordinary sunsets, catch fire pane by pane. I looked up too late for the blaze and felt that small pang one gets for the thing almost seen. Still, the ship kept gliding, a bright punctuation mark traveling our skyline.

Click photograph for my Online Gallery

Then the moon appeared—first as a bruise-colored coin pressed against a bank of cloud, then as itself, pale and whole, rising as if pulled on a cord. Photographs can play a trick here: place a ship under a full moon and, with the right lens, the vessel swells to improbable grandeur while the moon looks like a modest ornament. Our eyes know better. The ship is huge but near; the moon is unimaginably larger, only far. Distance humbles everything.

It’s a fine parlor truth that every lunar eclipse requires a full moon. There’s a steadiness in that—that the earth, playing the rare importance of middle child, can only cast its shadow when the moon has come fully into its own. The reverse, of course, is not guaranteed. Most full moons rise and go about their business, silvering roofs and quieting dogs, without ever tasting the earth’s shadow. Tonight would be different.

Click photograph for my Online Gallery

The Riddle of Size

Before the darkness advanced, the old riddle of size made its entrance. Low on the horizon, the moon seemed suddenly intimate, big enough to pocket the ship and still have room for the lighthouse. We call it an illusion, but the word hardly captures the tenderness of it: how the mind, seeing that round face near our familiar trees and eaves, feels the moon to be part of our belongings. Angular diameter stays stubbornly constant; affection does not. The experiment is easy enough—choose a pebble that covers the low moon at arm’s length, then try again when the moon is high. The same pebble hides it perfectly. What changes is not the moon, but the story our senses tell.

Click photograph for my Online Gallery

Clouds raveled and the disk lifted, gathering brightness. As the earth’s umbra slid across that worn, luminous stone, the color shifted from pearl to rust, then to the old red of clay amphorae. People love the names—Super, Wolf, Blood—as if the moon had stepped onto a carnival midway. I prefer the quieter facts: sun, earth, moon aligned; light refracted through air; the planet itself briefly confessed in velvet shadow. It felt less like spectacle than like a family resemblance revealed by candlelight.

Eclipse

Much later, around us, the little neighborhood chorus noticed. A conversation stalled mid-sentence; the unspooled hush you hear at a concert just before the bow draws its first note came and settled on the patio. Even the ocean seemed to restrain itself, waves taking smaller breaths. The cruise ship had long since slid behind the curvature of our seeing.

We kept watching. A lunar eclipse is an exercise in patience: everything happens slowly enough to be felt, quickly enough to refuse boredom. Shadows are honest about their edges. When the moon wore its deepest copper, I thought of ancient nights and imaginations unlit by anything but fire, how dependable cycles must have seemed like messages and how—standing there, spine pricked by a familiar old awe—I could not entirely disagree. It was not fear, but kinship: the sense that we are included in the machinery, not merely spectators.

Click photograph for my Online Gallery

When the light returned, it did so from one margin, like dawn rehearsed on a smaller stage. The coin brightened by degrees, and the old face we know reappeared—craters and mares soft as thumbprints. The illusion of size faded as the moon climbed, and the experiment with the pebble proved itself yet again. Even so, I felt the tug of that earlier enchantment, the way a child misses a dream just after waking. The mind keeps two ledgers: one for what is measured, one for what is felt. Tonight both were full.

Eventually we retired. Chairs nested. Doors clicked. In the kitchen, glasses chimed in the sink. But the moon kept on, white and durable, its borrowed light restored. Somewhere out there the ship’s passengers drifted to their cabins, stories in their pockets about the night the world itself cast a shadow, and how the ocean looked briefly like copper under a patient star.

Later, when I wrote down the times and the few facts I could trust to memory, I realized the real record was not the measurements but the company: our leaning back, the shared breath, the soft astonishment that comes when something vast moves at a human pace. The eclipse ended; the evening did not. That, too, felt like a kind of alignment—ours with one another, our small chairs with a very large sky.

Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.

Monarch Butterfly Life Cycle: Egg to Adult (Danaus plexippus) with Photos

From milkweed egg to striped caterpillar, jade chrysalis, and fluttering monarch, witness metamorphosis, migration, and our role in protecting Danaus plexippus across North America today.

MichaelStephenWills17 Comments

On the underside of a milkweed leaf, the world begins small enough to miss unless you kneel and look closely. In this first photograph the newborn is still a whisper of life, a pale pinhead egg collapsed into a glistening scrap, the tiny caterpillar beside it like a gray comma punctuating the green. It has just eaten the soft shell that cradled it—its first meal, its first thrift. The leaf’s pale roads of veins radiate around the hatchling; within that simple map lies all the geography it needs.

By the second photograph appetite has taken its proper throne. These pilgrims wear a uniform of warning: bands of yellow, black, and white—stripes as bright as hazard tape, a heraldic banner advertising the bitterness borrowed from milkweed. Each bite draws down defensive latex; yet the caterpillars feed undeterred, pausing to snip the leaf’s veins to quiet the flow. Their black, threadlike “tentacles” nod as they travel, and their peppery pellets—frass—collect like midnight hail. Five times they will outgrow themselves, shrugging off skins to reveal wider, hungrier versions within. The room is strewn with green rib and ragged edges; the air has the gentle smell of cut stems. All the while, milkweed’s poisons, the cardenolides, pass into growing bodies and become their bodyguard.

At last a hush. A final meal, a purposeful wander. The caterpillar chooses a high eave of the world—a stem, a stick, the corner of your rearing tent—and hooks itself into a downward J. Within hours the skin splits like a soft zipper; the striped creature pours itself out of itself and seals into a smooth chrysalis.

Here, the caterpillar has attached itself to a silk pad from which it hangs. Underneath the skin, the caterpillar is transforming to the chrysalis. In these photographs the silk pad and chrysalis attachment from a previous transformation are in the foreground.
Macro of the Monarch butterfly chrysalis. The black stalk attached to the silk pad is call a cremaster.

The following photograph and video catch the moments into becoming: the jade lantern has become transparent, darkening, its gold studs glinting like constellation points, and through the thinning walls the folded wings show, orange smoldering under smoke. Inside, old tissues have dissolved into a living broth; imaginal discs—tiny blueprints carried since the egg—have flowered into legs, eyes, and flight. To call it “metamorphosis” is correct; to call it mystery is truer.

Watch on YouTube for a better experience. Please “like” and “subscribe”

When the case opens the butterfly backs into the bright. It clings while the crumpled wings fill and flatten, hemolymph pumping life into every cell. In the next image the adult drinks from a petunia trumpet, a jeweled ember with white-spotted hems. The monarch—Danaus plexippus—tests the wind with new, purposeful wings. Its scientific name nods to ancient stories: Danaus after the Greek mythic king of Argos, a father who fled with his fifty daughters across the sea; plexippus for Plexippus, a figure of the same old tales—his name carried forward into this wanderer of the sky. The English name “monarch” is said to honor both its regal size and domain, and, some say, the orange-and-black of William of Orange. Kings and myths gathered like cloak and scepter around a creature that weighs less than a paperclip.

No butterfly has entered human life more completely. Schoolchildren cradle jars of milkweed sprigs and tape handwritten labels to chrysalides lined like seed pearls along a classroom window. Taggers kneel in September light, add a tiny disc to a wing, and write down time and place so the journey south can be traced. In the mountains of Mexico, where oyamel firs hold winter like a secret, people fold the monarch’s return into the Days of the Dead, believing that souls ride home on those wafers of flame. Gardeners tuck swamp milkweed into narrow beds and call their yards “waystations.” Photographers, such as myself, record the stories that happen leaf by leaf.

In early July a Monarch caterpillar revels in milkweed flowers.

Yet our touch is not simple. Fields simplified by herbicides have shaved milkweed from fencerows; tidy mowing removes nectar from roadsides in the tender weeks of migration; captive rearing in vast numbers, though done with reverence, may carry unintended risks of disease and weakened orientation. The monarch asks us to enlarge our sense of home beyond the fence: to let patches of milkweed lift their pale crowns in rough corners; to choose late-blooming asters and goldenrod; to keep a few ditches shaggy until the travelers pass. Conservation, like metamorphosis, is work that happens inside ordinary days.

Watch the cycle again in my images—egg to appetite, appetite to stillness, stillness to wing—and hear what it whispers in the steady voice of milkweed leaves and soft fall air. Rachel Carson wrote that “those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts.” Here beauty wears stripes and beads of gold, sips from garden petals, and threads a continent with its frail insistence. The monarch’s life is a ribbon we can follow with our eyes and, if we are willing, with our hands—gentle hands that leave room for milkweed to rise, for caterpillars to feed, for a chrysalis to darken and a window to fill, one bright morning, with wings.

On a personal note, this season was a success. Monarchs visited our milkweed patch several times allowing me to save/harvest nineteen eggs/caterpillars and raise them until release.

Selected references
Carson, Rachel. The Sense of Wonder. New York: Harper & Row, 1965. (Reissued: HarperCollins, 1998; Open Road Media e-book, 2011.) The quoted passage (“Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth…”) appears early in the book; the Open Road edition places it on p. 41.
Wikipedia contributors. “Monarch butterfly — Etymology and taxonomy.” (useful overview with primary citations).
Oberhauser, K. S., and M. J. Solensky, eds. The Monarch Butterfly: Biology and Conservation. Cornell University Press, 2004.

Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.

Wandering Glider: The Far-Traveling Dragonfly of Ithaca’s July Skies

A sun-worn dragonfly rests at journey’s end, its amber wings whispering of distant winds, silent skies, and the untold grace of nature’s farthest travelers.

MichaelStephenWills8 Comments

I found it trapped in the surface tension of standing water, motionless, its wings curled and clouded with the memory of flight. A dragonfly—worn, delicate, yet still resolute in form—lay before me like a token of the warm midsummer air that had lifted it through the fields and over the waters. July in Ithaca brings with it such winged travelers, borne on breezes scented with milkweed and bee balm, and this one, though grounded now, seemed still to carry the echo of great distances.

The dragonfly is not of the brooding sort; it lives neither in shadows nor secret places. It claims the sky as its own, ranging wide and far with a grace born of ceaseless motion. This particular specimen, its body some two inches in length and its wings veined like the bare branches of winter trees, bore the telltale marks of the Wandering Glider—Pantala flavescens. Each wing was tipped with a black bar, as though the artist who made it had laid down a final, definitive stroke to balance the creature in the air. Near the base, a wash of amber yellow glowed softly, like the last light of evening behind thin clouds.

There is something unquiet about the dragonfly. It does not hover long nor does it dawdle. It darts, it glides, it shimmers in and out of sight. It is a creature of action and of space. The glider, especially, seems to belong not to any one stream or meadow, but to the wind itself. Naturalists tell us this species is among the most traveled of all insects, crossing oceans, riding monsoons, appearing in lands where no memory of its departure remains. What must it see? What sunrises shimmer from its compound eyes, what shorelines flash beneath its outstretched wings?

In the dragonfly’s manner, I find no sign of labor, only the silent art of survival. It patrols its airspace like a hawk, yet it bears no menace, only the precise and relentless hunger of a born predator. With each dart and glide it performs a service to the air—clearing it of gnats and mosquitoes, feeding itself without waste. Nature, in her economy, grants no idle beauty, and the dragonfly is both elegant and essential.

As I gazed at the delicate carcass, I thought of the old philosophy that linked the soul’s journey to the flight of birds. But here, perhaps, is a more fitting image: this dragonfly, which lives but a brief summer, yet might travel farther in its span than many creatures do in a lifetime. We are apt to call it “wandering,” as though it lacked aim or anchor. But I think it follows a thread of purpose invisible to us—something stitched into the weave of wind and weather, of season and sun.

It had come far, and its journey was complete. My wife provided an empty saffron spice box to preserve and display it—for the grandchildren to marvel over.

Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.

Unveiling the Ancient Beauty of Interrupted Ferns

In the hush of Sapsucker Woods, Interrupted Ferns unfurl their ancient green with quiet grace—guardians of time, rooted in myth, memory, and moss.

MichaelStephenWills13 Comments


In a shaded hollow of Sapsucker Woods, where the hush of ancient time lingers like mist among the trees, the Interrupted Fern rises from the soft, damp floor with a quiet grace. Its fronds, broad and arching, seem less grown than unfurled—as if unrolling a memory held for millions of years.

The plant’s name, Osmunda claytoniana, carries echoes of two worlds. “Osmunda,” perhaps once spoken in the sacred groves of northern Europe, is thought to honor a forgotten god—Osmunder, one of Thor’s names, a guardian of strength and storm. The species name pays tribute to John Clayton, an early colonial botanist who walked Virginia’s forests centuries ago and recognized in this fern a quiet marvel worth remembering.

And so this plant, whose lineage reaches back more than 200 million years, is rooted not just in soil and stone, but in language and lore.

The fern’s common name—Interrupted—describes the curious habit of its fertile fronds, which rise briefly in midsummer, dark and beadlike, then wither and vanish, leaving a ghostly gap midway up the blade. It is as though the plant had paused mid-sentence, letting silence speak where others would persist. In this interruption, the forest itself seems to take a breath.

The roots of Osmunda claytoniana twist into fibrous mats beneath the soil. These rhizomes, dense and springy, were once harvested as osmunda fiber, prized by horticulturists for cradling delicate orchids—a gentle reminder of how often nature’s strength serves human fragility. And though the Interrupted Fern is not celebrated in pharmacopeias, its kin were used by Indigenous peoples as poultices for wounds, or brewed into mild tonics to ease internal aches—suggesting a long, quiet partnership with humankind.

Forest Floor in Sapsucker Woods on a summer afternoon

There is little need for blossoms or fragrance here. The beauty of this fern is in its restraint. Its fronds do not shout, but rather whisper of deep time, of shaded ravines and glacial meltwaters, of forests that once stood where oceans now roll. Some said ferns were touched by magic—that they bloomed only on Midsummer’s Eve and vanished before the eye could see. The Interrupted Fern, with its appearing and disappearing fronds, might well have inspired such tales.

And so, in the filtered light beneath the canopy, this ancient fern lives on—not as a relic, but as a quiet thread in the fabric of the living forest. To stand in its presence is to feel a kind of reverence—not for what is rare, but for what endures.

Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.

The Mesa Light Captured Them

A father and son journey to Eagle Mesa, experiencing its beauty and silence, reflecting on its history and significance within Navajo culture as the day fades.

MichaelStephenWills18 Comments

They came north out of Chinle with the day already leaning west and the sun fallen low into the drag of horizon dust and the road ran flat and empty past rust hills and mesquite country until, turning into the sun at Mexican Water, after a long hour, at last they pulled into Kayenta where the streets lay quiet under the heavy sun and the windows of the store fronts cast their amber light out across the sand drifting across sidewalks and the wind stirred only faintly and then was still.

They left their bags in the room and turned north again without speaking. The son drove. A man, his father, sat quiet beside him and the sun slid low through the windshield and the sky was pale and cloudless and wide beyond reckoning.

The land began to rise and the road bent and climbed and fell again and then it came into view. Not slowly. Not like a curtain rising. It was simply there.

A shape in the far desert.

Like a ship that had grounded in a sea long vanished. A sheer mesa the color of blood and ochre and fire where the last of the day spilled westward and caught the rock face and made it burn.

He told the son to pull off. They stopped the car and got out and the sound of the engine fell away, the desert made no sound at all.

The man stood in the road and turned slowly. Eagle Mesa lay before him and the land stretched off in every direction and the fenceposts ran on into silence and the sky seemed to rest upon the buttes as if tired.

There were names for these places. Old names. Navajo names that spoke of eagles roosting and trees once there and water that came and went and did not come again. The mesa they called Wide Rock. The place where spirits go. He did not know the words but he knew the feeling.

On the way to Monument Valley Tribal Park as the sunset for this view on Sullivan Road (Route 163). Navajo County, Arizona. Eagle Mesa is situated 4.5 miles (7.2 km) northeast of Oljato–Monument Valley, Utah, on Navajo Nation land. It is an iconic landform of Monument Valley and can be seen from Highway 163.Precipitation runoff from this mesa’s slopes drains to Mitchell Butte Wash and Train Rock Wash which are both part of the San Juan River drainage basin. Topographic relief is significant as the summit rises 1,100 feet (335 meters) above surrounding terrain in 0.6 mile (1 km). The nearest higher neighbor is Brighams Tomb, 2.05 miles (3.30 km) to the east. This landform’s toponym has been officially adopted by the United States Board on Geographic Names. Navajo names for the mesa are “Wide Rock”, “Where the Eagles Roost”, “Water Basket Sits”, and “Trees Hanging from Surrounding Belt” because there were once numerous trees here. In Navajo mythology, Eagle Mesa is a place where spirits of the deceased may go. Eagle Rock Spire is a 300-ft tower on the northern tip of the mesa which requires class 5.9 climbing skill to reach the summit.Navajo names for this spire which resembles a perched eagle include “Eagle Alongside Mesa”, “Big Finger is Pointed”, and Tsé Łichii Dahazkani (Elevated Red Rock Sitting Up). The first ascent of the spire was made on April 23, 1970, by Fred Beckey and Eric Bjornstad. Geology Eagle Mesa is a mesa composed of three principal strata. The bottom layer is Organ Rock Shale, the next stratum is cliff-forming De Chelly Sandstone, and the upper layer is Moenkopi Formation capped by Shinarump Conglomerate. The rock ranges in age from Permian at the bottom to Late Triassic at the top. The buttes and mesas of Monument Valley are the result of the Organ Rock Shale being more easily eroded than the overlaying sandstone.

The son came and stood beside him and did not speak. The man lifted the camera and took a photograph and then another. The road behind them shimmered with the last heat of day. He took another picture his son, dressed in black, his arms at rest and the red mesa rising behind him and the shadows of their bodies cast long across the gravel and the shoulder of the road.

On the way to Monument Valley Tribal Park as the sunset for this view on Sullivan Road (Route 163). Behind Sean are the landforms Eagle Mesa and behind it Setting Hen, Bringham’s Tomb, to the right. Navajo County, Arizona

They took turns with the camera. The son caught him midstride and smiling lit by sunlight, the land stretching out all around. A man small in a world not made for men.

There was no sound but the click of the shutter and the dry whisper of wind among the sage.

On the way to Monument Valley Tribal Park as the sunset for this view on Sullivan Road (Route 163). Behind Mike are the landforms Eagle Mesa and behind it Setting Hen, Bringham’s Tomb to the right. Navajo County, Arizona

Later he would read that the rock was born of Organ Shale and De Chelly Sandstone and Moenkopi topped with Shinarump. He would know the spire they saw was first climbed by men named Beckey and Bjornstad and that it was called Tsé Łichii Dahazkani by those who’d named it before it ever had another name. He would know the mesa rose eleven hundred feet in less than a mile and that its runoff fed washes that fed rivers that fed nothing now.

But then he only stood and watched and knew it for what it was.

Not a monument to anything but time.

A stillness like prayer. A place that waits.

They lingered until the sun went and the sky turned iron blue and the shadows of the rock reached out across the valley floor and touched them where they stood. Then they climbed back in the car and drove south again and the road unwound behind them black and a single star above and the silence of the place held on inside them long after the valley was gone.

Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.

Reflections on Hawkweed: A Meditative Journey Along Buttermilk Creek

Discover the enchanting hawkweed along Buttermilk Creek’s path. Explore its vibrant yellow blooms, unique reproduction, and rich folklore in our latest nature essay. Dive into the captivating world of this resilient wildflower!

MichaelStephenWills4 Comments


Walking along the path that climbs from the lower park into the gorge of Buttermilk Creek, I am drawn to the vibrant splash of yellow that punctuates the verdant green and shale, limestone of the path. Here I encounter the humble yet striking hawkweed (Hieracium spp.). These yellow flowers, seemingly modest in their simplicity, invite me into a deeper contemplation of nature’s intricacies.

A Closer Look

The hawkweed’s leaves form a basal rosette, their slightly toothed edges and hairy surface distinguishing them from other woodland plants. The leaves are a deep green, the tiny hairs catching the sunlight, giving them a silvery sheen. From this rosette emerges an erect stem, slender and bristling with fine hairs, reaching upwards to support the flower heads. The stems stand tall, bearing clusters of small, dandelion-like flowers that open into a cheerful yellow bloom.

These Hawkweed grow profusely along the climb along Buttermilk Creek and into the gorge. Buttermilk Falls Park, Ithaca, Tompkins County, New York State. Finger Lakes Region

Each flower head consists of numerous tiny florets, collectively forming a radiant disc. The petals are intricately fringed, almost feathery, a delicate contrast to the sturdy stem that holds them aloft. This contrast is a reminder of the balance in nature—strength and fragility coexisting in harmony.

Relationship and Reproduction

Hawkweeds belong to the Asteraceae family, sharing familial ties with daisies and dandelions. Despite their visual similarity to dandelions, hawkweeds possess unique reproductive strategies. They are known for their ability to reproduce asexually through a process called apomixis. This means that the seeds produced by hawkweed are genetically identical to the parent plant. In a grouping of hawkweeds, what appears to be a diverse collection of individuals may, in fact, be clones of a single genetic ancestor.

This method of reproduction ensures the rapid spread and establishment of hawkweed populations, a survival strategy that has both fascinated and frustrated botanists and gardeners alike. While this cloning capability allows hawkweeds to thrive in various environments, it also poses a challenge for those trying to control their spread.

Etymology and Origins

The genus name “Hieracium” is derived from the Greek word “hierax,” meaning hawk. According to ancient lore, hawks were believed to consume the sap of this plant to sharpen their vision. This mythological connection to hawks underscores the plant’s perceived potency and its storied place in folklore.

Hawkweed is not native to the Finger Lakes region but was introduced from Europe. Despite its non-native status, it has adapted well to the local environment, often found in meadows, along roadsides, and within open woodlands. Its ability to colonize disturbed areas has enabled it to become a common sight across the landscape.

Historical Uses and Lore

Throughout history, hawkweed has been used for various medicinal purposes. Traditional herbalists valued it for its purported benefits in treating respiratory ailments, digestive issues, and skin conditions. The plant was often brewed into teas or concoctions believed to have diuretic and astringent properties. Some cultures also used hawkweed as a charm against evil spirits, further embedding it in the tapestry of folklore and superstition.

In medieval times, hawkweed was sometimes used in love potions and to enhance psychic abilities. Its association with hawks and keen vision lent itself to these mystical uses, as people sought to harness the plant’s reputed powers for their own needs.

A Contemplative Pause

As I stand on the path, surrounded by the quiet beauty of Buttermilk Creek, I reflect on the hawkweed before me. This unassuming plant, with its bright flowers and tenacious growth, embodies resilience and adaptability. It thrives in the cracks and crevices of the rocky soil, a testament to nature’s relentless drive to flourish even in the most challenging conditions.

The hawkweed’s ability to clone itself, creating vast networks of genetically identical plants, speaks to the interconnectedness of life. Each plant is a reflection of its predecessors, a living link in the chain of existence. This genetic continuity is a reminder of the ways in which life persists and propagates, ensuring survival through the ages.

I found this growing along the South Rim Trail of Taughannock Falls Park during a Fathers Day Walk, June 16, 2024.Picris hieracioides, or hawkweed oxtongue, is a species of flowering plant in the family Asteraceae. Invasive Species Hawkweed Oxtongue is considered an invasive species in North America because it has the ability to outcompete native plants, reduce biodiversity, and alter ecosystems. The plant spreads rapidly and can form dense monocultures, making it difficult for other plants to grow. Additionally, Hawkweed Oxtongue produces a chemical that inhibits the growth of other plants, further contributing to its invasive nature. Control and Management The control and management of Hawkweed Oxtongue can be challenging. The plant has a deep taproot that makes it difficult to remove by hand, and it can regrow from small root fragments left in the soil. Herbicides can be effective in controlling the plant, but they can also harm other plants in the area. The best approach to managing Hawkweed Oxtongue is to prevent its spread by avoiding the movement of soil or plant material that may contain seeds or root fragments. Uses Despite its invasive nature, Hawkweed Oxtongue has some traditional medicinal uses. The plant contains compounds that have been used to treat digestive problems, skin conditions, and respiratory issues. However, the use of this plant for medicinal purposes is not recommended due to the potential for toxicity. In conclusion, Hawkweed Oxtongue is an invasive species that has the potential to cause significant ecological damage. It is important to prevent the spread of this plant and to take measures to control its growth where it has already become established. While it has some traditional medicinal uses, the potential for toxicity means that it should not be used for this purpose. Text taken from http://www.wildflowerweb.co.uk/plant/2453/hawkweed-oxtongue

In the stillness of the gorge, I find a sense of peace and connection. The hawkweed, with its storied past and practical resilience, offers a lesson in simplicity and strength. It reminds me that beauty often lies in the small, overlooked details of the natural world, and that every plant, every flower, has a story worth discovering.

As I continue my journey along Buttermilk Creek, the hawkweed’s bright blooms remain a vivid memory, a symbol of the enduring spirit of nature.

Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved

Two Laughing Gulls of Cocoa Beach: A Dance of Adaptation and Survival

Discover the captivating world of Laughing Gulls, the jesters of Cocoa Beach’s shores. Dive into their lives, exploring the dance of courtship, the adaptability in their diet, and their vital role in the coastal symphony.

MichaelStephenWills8 Comments

The Coastal Sentinels

On the shores of Cocoa Beach, where the Atlantic’s waves gently knead the sands of Brevard County, Laughing Gulls (Leucophaeus atricilla) enact their daily ballet of survival and adaptation. In the span of mere minutes, the shifting light of Florida’s coastal theater presents two scenes, each with the same protagonist yet donned in starkly different costumes.

The Many Faces of Adaptation

The first gull, captured against the frothy lace of the incoming tide, is the epitome of the breeding plumage: a sleek, black hood that starkly contrasts its pearl-grey wings. This attire is not merely for allure but speaks of its readiness to engage in the rituals of courtship and the responsibilities of rearing the next generation. This black hood, a seasonal crown, fades as the duties of breeding wane, revealing the less conspicuous garb of the non-breeding season—a mottled grey head atop the same sturdy body, ready to blend into the off-season’s landscape.

Laughing Gull with breeding plumage

Laughing Gull, nonbreeding plumage

Minutes Of Separation

The mere minutes that separate the two photographs are but a whisper in the grand dialogue of evolutionary time. Yet, they offer a glimpse into the ever-present duality of the Laughing Gull’s life. In one, the gull stands resolute, black-headed and bold against the soft chaos of the sea’s edge. In the other, its head appears dusted with the wisdom of age, a visual softening that speaks to the less confrontational time of year.

Here are some observations to make sense of this disparity:

Overlap of Molting Periods: Laughing Gulls do not all breed at the same time; some individuals may start molting into or out of breeding plumage earlier or later than others. This can result in birds with different plumage being seen together.

Varied Maturity: Younger gulls or those not yet of breeding age may not have developed the breeding plumage, while adults in the same flock may display full breeding colors.

Breeding Colonies: Gulls often nest in colonies where birds in different stages of the breeding cycle can be observed together, including those that may have lost mates or failed to breed and therefore did not develop breeding plumage.

Health or Nutritional Status: Sometimes a bird’s plumage can be affected by its health or nutritional status. A gull in poor health might not molt into breeding plumage as expected.

Geographic and Climatic Factors: Local environmental conditions can influence the timing of molting. Birds in the same location can experience different environmental cues that might affect their molt.

Non-breeding Visitors: During the breeding season, some non-breeding birds may still be present and intermingle with breeding birds, either because they are passing through the area or they are non-breeding residents.

Extended Breeding Season: In areas with a long breeding season, such as in subtropical and tropical regions, the breeding and non-breeding plumages can be seen at the same time due to the extended period over which breeding can occur.

Masters of the Coastal Realm

The Laughing Gulls are more than just residents of the coast; they are its caretakers and witnesses. Their laughing calls are synonymous with the ocean’s breath, a soundscape that harmonizes with the rhythmic crashing of waves. These birds thrive in the intertidal zone, a challenging environment where land and sea engage in a perpetual tussle. Here, they must be opportunistic, agile, and resourceful, for the beach offers both a cornucopia of food and the threat of unpredictability.

The Ebb and Flow of Existence

The life of a Laughing Gull is intimately tied to the ebb and flow of the tides. Their diet is a testament to their adaptability, comprising anything the sea yields—fish, crustaceans, and even the unfortunate insects that stray too close to the brine. They are pirates of the shore, unafraid to snatch a meal from another bird or scavenge the remains of human activity.

Reflections on Change and Constancy

Laughing Gulls are the embodiment of the sea’s narrative around us—a story of change and constancy. Their lives are a testament to the tumultuous history of the ocean, and their presence is a thread that connects us to the vast, blue mystery. They remind us that, while the sea’s moods are many and its faces ever-changing, it remains a central force in the narrative of life on Earth.

In the Face of Tomorrow

In the space between these two images, we find a profound lesson on the nature of time and the resilience of life. The Laughing Gulls of Cocoa Beach, with their shifting plumage and timeless cries, are messengers of the past, envoys of the present, and harbingers of the future. As we contemplate their existence, we are reminded of our own place within the natural world—a world that requires our understanding and protection, lest the laughter of these gulls fades into the silent archives of history.

The Laughing Gulls of Cocoa Beach continue their dance, unfazed by the human gaze, their lives a fluid adaptation to the sea’s caprices. And as the sun marches across the sky, casting the story of these gulls into relief against the shifting sands, we are privileged to observe, to learn, and to cherish the Atlantic Ocean’s enduring tale.

Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved