The roaring sound of cicada tymbals has noticeably quieted. The next generation of periodical cicadas is young and silent. After hatching from eggs laid in trees, they will fall to the ground and tunnel into the earth, where they will live in darkness for years. These days it is the lightning bugs who are putting on a show.
The roaring sound of cicada tymbals has noticeably quieted. The next generation of periodical cicadas is young and silent. After hatching from eggs laid in trees, they will fall to the ground and tunnel into the earth, where they will live in darkness for years. These days it is the lightning bugs who are putting on a show.
Roads themselves are notoriously busy places. Fast human transportation is concentrated within these strips of pavement that cut through what can often be a human-designed landscape, be it housing or farmland or something else. But between the road and the other development, there tends to be a section largely neglected by deliberate human interference and left to its own devices. The roadside.
I catch a glimpse of water. It is not obvious. An abundance of plant life hides most of the water, which becomes clearer as I continue down the trail. I walk right up to an open gate. The ominous entrance frames a low bridge with dark water and tolerant plants on either side. Beyond the bridge is a boardwalk in the sunshine. I walk through the gate.
The bird feeders outside the nature center’s windows are occupied by a frenzy of woodpeckers, chickadees, goldfinches, nuthatches, and so many more fluttering feathered beings. Squirrels take the liberty of picking up fallen seeds on the ground alongside mourning doves and dark-eyed juncos. My attention is very much absorbed in the birds’ and squirrels’ whereabouts, but I do notice someone else.
The pond was still and cold. Its dark hue reflected surrounding trees and shrubbery yet to turn green. Ends and angles of sticks and logs protruded from the water’s surface. On one of those logs was a round shape, an irregularity among the flat water and squiggles of wood. But it was not quite an irregularity after all.
False Solomon’s seal is a plant that I stumble upon every so often in woodlands. I recently found a grouping of them with their naturally leaning stems standing just over two feet tall. The stems were lined with large, ovate leaves arranged into an alternating pattern. At the very end of each stem were berries.
