A Winter Buffet

Indiangrass

Sometimes when I'm walking on the Greenway I imagine I'm a bird, and speculate on how I would fill my belly in these long, bug-free winter months. 

I remember the flowers during the summer, bright colors a-flutter with bees and butterflies dining on pollen and nectar. All the frenzied activity of those sunny days leading up to...this. Brown, desiccated sticks topped with plain seed heads. Occasionally a stubborn, withered leaf or two clings after all its companions have long since fallen to the crunchy jumble hidden beneath a thin blanket of snow.

 

Little Bluestem

But those seed heads are a lifeline for the goldfinches and chickadees living on the Greenway. The barren swaths of suburbia offer little to our intrepid feathered friends.  The lawns of nearby subdivisions are a Siberian waste, devoid of food or shelter, save for a few small trees and shrubs.Here and there small garden patches may offer a bit of sustenance; these, however, are designed primarily for people's pleasure.

Tall Coreopsis (photo taken at F.W. Kent Park)

The Sycamore Greenway, like the prairies of old, is--well, not quite a veritable buffet. I suspect the flavor and variety on offer in the winter is more along the lines of a Depression-era breadline. It will keep you alive during the lean times, but it probably won't be as satisfying and pleasurable as can be found in the halcyon days of summer. 

As always, I am partial to the Gray-headed Coneflower. Their matchstick-heads crumble with satisfying ease into long, flat seeds. Tall coreopsis seems a popular choice; its close-packed seed heads often prove empty upon close inspection. Same with Cup Plant, its ragged remnants of cupped leaves clasping the blackened stem, and Prairie Dock, with huge, dappled basal leaves resembling a shed lizard skin resting on the ground far below the picked-over seed heads. 

Prairie Dock leaf

The fluffier seeds--cattail, field thistle--seem less favored, although I have observed another fluffy-seeded flower not common on the Greenway, Blazing star (Liatris sp.) being long since picked-clean at other locations. Asters seeds, too, seem to go quickly, leaving empty, star-shaped heads on branching stems low near the ground. 

Another of my favorites, Illinois bundleflower, takes a bit more effort, enclosing its shiny chestnut-colored seeds in flat pods that form a charming spherical rosette, each a small sculpture against the dreary sameness of winter. I imagine these to be a heartier meal than the flimsy, non-leguminous seeds, though that is probably down to my strong pro-bean stance more than any evidence I have seen.

Illinois Bundleflower

And not to ignore the grasses! Indiangrass, Big bluestem, and Little bluestem all carry nutritious seeds on their swaying stems. To my eye, they seem insignificant, but for a hungry junco in midwinter they may be a lifesaver.

The Joy of the Unexpected

When I was little, I would list dozens of toys on my Christmas List for Santa (who also seemed to share it with my aunts, uncles, and grandparents). There was pleasure in unwrapping one of those longed-for toys next to the tree on Christmas day, but it couldn't compare to the joy of opening a box to find a surprise gift, unasked-for and unexpected but perfect nonetheless. One year it was a little stuffed raccoon, football-shaped head perched atop a beanbag body. The raccoon stayed with me through college and beyond; the rest of the toys have been long forgotten.

I have thousands of my "favorite" songs at my fingertips on an iPod, and I can access almost the entirety of recorded music in an instant via my phone, but I still listen to the radio in my car and feel a moment of joy when one of my favorites is played. It is like running into an old friend on the street when running errands; of course you can call or text them whenever you'd like, but the serendipitous encounter adds an element of excitement to the usual pleasure of the familiar.

Bounding deer dead center.

On a recent visit to the South Sycamore Bottoms one still, silent afternoon, the calm was broken by rustling brush, followed by the tawny blur of a deer bounding along the edge of the pond. There was such joy in seeing the deer just doing deer things, unencumbered by the usual apprehension that accompanies the sight of them crossing roads or wandering closer to neighborhoods in town.

I've felt the same joy finding a tiny turtle the size of a half-dollar on the Greenway trail, or seeing a shooting star in the inky pre-dawn sky. There is pleasure in seeing a thousand gray-headed coneflowers blooming in August, but there is joy in finding those one or two eccentric individuals that put off their blooming until late October, long after their comrades have set seed and faded into the background. Or the setting sun catching the cattails just right such that they glow golden for just a few minutes before fading again in the waning light.

Crystalline dandelion.

Walking on a trail like the Sycamore Greenway regularly is a pleasure, no doubt. You get to know each turn; where the Illinois Bundleflower grows and where to watch for the patches of Joe-pye weed. You know those dull stretches that seem to have nothing but Queen Anne's Lace and Yellow Sweet Clover. But there is always the chance that you will see something unexpected and ephemeral: a common yellowthroat singing briefly on a reed before disappearing, or a pair of Sandhill cranes flying overhead with their raucous calls. Be on the lookout, for moments of joy are all around.

Am I Tougher Than a Chickadee?

No. No, I'm not.

Queen Anne's Lace

I trudged along the Greenway on a recent dreary morning, bundled up in a puffy coat with a hat pulled down over my ears, hoping for a colorful sunrise but seeing only bleak gray sky. There wasn't even a glitter of frost to lend a festive atmosphere. The reluctant dog kept trying to turn back towards his cozy, centrally-heated den, only to be tugged back along the trail. "Get used to it," I mutter, half to him and half to myself.

Gray-headed Coneflower

Then from brush to the north comes the buzzy dee dee dee of our chickadee friends. Their tiny, energetic bodies zip across the trail and flit among the branches of a bare tree. Farther along the trail a cardinal is centered against a dry brown backdrop, reminding me wistfully of the small crimson spot centered in an umbel Queen Anne's Lace from warmer times. The Queen Anne's Lace, soft and elegant no more, has shriveled to a skeletal claw around a nest of seeds. Nearby are some Gray-headed Coneflower, the dignified rounded seed heads half-eaten by goldfinches.

It's amazing and humbling to contemplate the small feathered beings that survive our harshest winters with just a feathered coat and whatever cover they can find among the dry leaves and grasses. Chickadees and goldfinches weigh less than an ounce--about as much as three quarters. House sparrows and Dark-eyed juncos weigh just a bit more, still only around one ounce. Yet they are adapted to survive both the blistering heat of midsummer and the bone-chilling lows of winter.

There's a cardinal in there somewhere.

Sure, I tend to eat constantly in the winter and increase my intake of fatty foods. I minimize bare skin exposed to the elements, and seek shelter from the wind and snow. I'm not as active as during the warmer months. So I suppose we share many strategies for getting through the winter with our tiny feathered friends.

I sometimes wonder, though, if the hardy chickadees ever titter to each other about the wimpy, runny-nosed humans hustling about in bundles of clothing while the birds spend night after bone-chilling night outside with just the feathers on their backs. 

I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.
-  D.H. Lawrence