Tag: nature journal

“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.

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A Visit from Rose-Breasted Grosbeaks

On a serene May morning, a small flock of Rose-breasted Grosbeaks graced the author’s yard, showcasing their vibrant plumage and bringing beauty to the tranquil scene of nature.

MichaelStephenWills11 Comments


It was a gentle May morning, the kind that seems to hush even the wind, as though nature were holding its breath for something wonderful. Through the kitchen window, just past the black iron gate entwined with the fresh green of climbing rose, I spotted them—feathered heralds of spring’s deepening promise—perched like jeweled notes on a musical staff.


The Rose-breasted Grosbeaks had arrived.

May 3, 2025 Four Male Rose Brested Grosbeaks visited our backyard bird feeder during spring cleanup.


Not one or two, but a small flock, draped in raindrops, feathered in contrast and charm. They gathered around our backyard feeder like guests invited to a familiar table. At 5:56 a.m., the camera captured the first image: two males on the feeder and one each on fence and chair, a bold bib of crimson splashed across snowy chests, huddled against the gray of the feeder, their plumage brilliant even in the diffused dawn light. I couldn’t help but smile. This was a scene of quiet splendor, a symphony for the eyes and soul.


The males, unmistakable in their attire, wore tuxedos of black and white, with the defining rose-red marking on the breast that gives the species its common name. Their scientific name, Pheucticus ludovicianus, is less poetic but equally telling. “Pheucticus” comes from the Greek pheuktikos, meaning “shy” or “avoiding,” reflecting their reclusive habits in forested nesting grounds. “Ludovicianus” refers to Louisiana, an early French colonial name for a vast region including their breeding range—a nod to their North American roots.


At 5:58 a.m., the lens captured more details: a male with slightly mottled wing feathers, suggesting he was a younger bird, still dressing up in adult finery. The trio clung to the feeder’s edge, their heavy, conical beaks—perfect for cracking seeds—clearly visible. That oversized bill gives them the name “grosbeak,” from the French gros bec, literally “large beak.” Functional beauty, you might say.

May 3, 2025 Three of the Four Male Rose Brested Grosbeaks visited our backyard bird feeder during spring cleanup.


Then, at 6:08 a.m., came the contrast—the female. Subtly adorned in warm browns, with creamy streaks and a wash of yellow near the wings, she perched beside her flamboyant mate, as if to say: elegance need not shout. The two birds looked momentarily toward each other, and I was struck by their balance—his flair and her grace. Her eyebrow stripe, called a supercilium, lent her a composed, alert expression. While the male might catch the eye, the female commands attention in her own, quieter way.

May 3, 2025 Male and Female Rose Breasted Grosbeaks visited our backyard bird feeder during spring cleanup.


Rose-breasted Grosbeaks are migratory, long-distance travelers who winter in Central and South America and return each spring to North America’s deciduous and mixed woodlands to breed. Here in upstate New York, our yard is a brief rest stop on their northward journey—or, if I’m lucky, a summer home. They often nest in dense foliage, and their song, a melodic, whistled warble—like a robin who’s taken voice lessons—is often the first clue to their presence.


This morning, no song was needed. Their silent presence was enough.


Watching them, I felt time slow, the kind of moment when the ordinary yard becomes cathedral. Watching them, I felt time slow, the kind of moment when the ordinary yard becomes cathedral. The wet fence and chair under the feeder, even the crumpled leaf bag—everything was blessed by the company of these birds. Rain softened the world, and the birds brought color to its hush.


Later that day, reviewing the photos with metadata timestamps from my iPhone—each image like a verse in a poem—I marveled at what I had witnessed. These weren’t just birds. They were stories in flight, living punctuation marks in the sentence of my morning.


Nature gives us these moments, brief as birdsong and just as sweet. You only have to be still, and ready to receive them.

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References

  1. Pheucticus ludovicianus (Rose-breasted Grosbeak). Cornell Lab of Ornithology – All About Birds.
  2. Jobling, James A. The Helm Dictionary of Scientific Bird Names. London: Christopher Helm, 2010.
  3. Merriam-Webster Dictionary: Etymology of “Grosbeak.”
  4. iPhone 14 Pro Max image metadata (May 3, 2025; 5:56 a.m. to 6:08 a.m.; Ithaca, NY).

Discovering Trillium Species: Beauty in Diversity

A reflective springtime journey through Robert H. Treman and Fillmore Glen State Parks reveals the quiet beauty and botanical mysteries of red and white trilliums—exploring their species differences, color shifts, and the wonder of their ephemeral blooms.

MichaelStephenWills41 Comments

Click me for my Getty flower photography.

Late April – Robert H. Treman State Park

I follow a winding trail through hemlock and maple woods, the air cool and earthy after a spring rain. Under the canopy of budding leaves, I spot a flash of deep burgundy among the moss. Kneeling, I find a red trillium blooming at the base of an old oak. Its three velvety petals are a rich wine color against the green moss and damp leaf litter. A faint musky scent wafts from the flower – no wonder some call it “Stinking Benjamin.” Nearby stands another trillium, but this one is a pristine white star facing upward toward the light. Its broad petals have a gentle wavy edge and no noticeable odor. The red flower droops modestly while the white one opens itself to the sky. Different in color and posture, I realize these are two distinct species1 sharing the same springtime stage.

Red trilliums (Trillium erectum) and white trilliums (Trillium grandiflorum) thrive side by side on the mossy roots of a tree. The maroon “wake robin” flowers nod toward the earth, while the white blooms stand upright to catch the light.

Seeing the red and white blooms side by side feels like meeting two woodland siblings – each unique yet part of the same family. The white trillium is almost luminous in the forest gloom, while the red trillium blends into the shadows with its dark hues. Both emerge from the soil after long, cold months, timing their bloom for the brief sunny window before the trees fully leaf out. Knowing how slowly these perennials grow and how long they live makes their yearly return even more special to witness. Their resilience in coming back each spring fills me with quiet awe.

Early May – Fillmore Glen State Park

A week later, I wander the lush gorge of Fillmore Glen. The trail is alive with birdsong and the rush of a creek. Dappled sunlight slips through the greening canopy, illuminating patches of the forest floor. Rounding a bend, I catch my breath — the hillside ahead is blanketed with hundreds of white trilliums, a breathtaking constellation of blooms across the ground that feels almost sacred. Careful not to tread on any, I step closer to admire them at eye level.

Up close, one large white trillium reveals a surprise: a delicate wash of pink across its aging petals, as if it were blushing. It’s known that after pollination the snow-white petals of Trillium grandiflorum often turn rose-pink with age2. Indeed, many blossoms here wear a faint pink tint, especially those that have been open for a while. This blush of maturity gives the colony a quietly celebratory air – fresh ivory blooms mingling with older siblings tinted softly rose.

The petals of a white trillium take on a soft pink blush as the flower ages, adding a new hue to the spring palette. Fresh white trilliums bloom in the background while older ones show a rosy tint.

In a shaded nook at the edge of the colony, a lone red trillium blooms among the white. I wonder if the red and white trilliums ever hybridize. I see no intermediate colors and recall that the white trillium rarely hybridizes with other species3. The red trillium, by contrast, can swap pollen with certain close relatives, yielding various forms elsewhere. But a true red–white cross never occurs here – each species keeps to its own.

Trillium bloom April through May in central New York State. I found these blooming on the rim of Fillmore Glen near Owasco Lake and the town of Moravia.

The red trillium even has a rare white-petaled form4 easily mistaken for its white-flowered cousin. I linger a bit longer among these graceful “trinity flowers,” my questions answered and my appreciation deepened. As I turn to go, a sunbeam breaks through and illuminates one last trillium by the trail, its white petals touched with pink. I smile, grateful for the chance to witness this woodland wonder.

Click me for another Trillium posting

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Footnotes

  1. Different species: Red trillium and white trillium are separate species (Trillium erectum and Trillium grandiflorum, respectively), distinguished by traits like flower orientation and petal shapeidentifythatplant.com.
  2. White petals turn pink: The large white trillium’s petals are pure white upon opening but gradually develop a rose-pink or purple tint as the flower agesnj.gov.
  3. Rare hybridization: Unlike some trilliums that hybridize readily, Trillium grandiflorum (white trillium) is not known to form hybrids with other speciesen.wikipedia.org. Trillium erectum can hybridize with its close relatives, but a red–white trillium cross is not observed in nature.
  4. White form of red trillium: Trillium erectum (normally red) has a variety with white petals, classified as T. erectum var. album, which can be mistaken for a white trillium at a glancemidatlanticnature.blogspot.com.