The Humble Sparrow

Sparrows, those nondescript little brown birds that are the bane of a casual birder, are both omnipresent and ignored. They are not renowned for beautiful plumage or graceful songs, and in fact are presented as the very embodiment of the common and the lowly--the fall of one sparrow demonstrating the minute and omnipresent attention of God in the Bible, for example.

The handsome Lark Sparrow

For too many years, I--not even a casual birder, but more an affectionate observer of birds I happen upon--divided sparrows into "House Sparrows" and "not House Sparrows," with the former being too ubiquitous for my attention and the latter too vague and difficult to bother with. I would occasionally get photos of a "not House Sparrow" and promptly ignore it as too difficult to identify. Sometimes I would get an easy one--a White-throated Sparrow singing "Oh sweet Canada Canada Canada" was fairly obvious even for me, and the heavily-streaked Song Sparrows were common enough that I grew to recognize them as well--but for the most part these drab little skulkers hopped around beneath my notice.

Two developments over the past year changed my laissez-faire attitude toward sparrows. First was seeing a charming little sparrow on the Greenway last May, hopping up from the pavement to grab beaksful of dandelion seeds. Its strikingly-patterned face--bold black stripes over a white face, with a rufous patch over the ear--was different enough that even I could easily match it to that of the Lark Sparrow in my guide. So not all sparrows were nondescript!

Lincoln's Sparrow

Next came the discovery of websites like iNaturalist, where a casual birdwatcher can upload photos to be identified by those for whom even the most blandly-feathered birds are familiar friends. When my attempts at identification are uncertain, these volunteer experts are prompt and precise in their IDs--putting actual names to all those "not House Sparrows" I encountered along the Greenway, like the sneaky Leconte's Sparrow last spring, and Lincoln's and Swamp Sparrows this past October. I could compare my photos to those in both printed bird guides and websites like allaboutbirds.org or audubon.org and then confirm or correct by ID with the help of iNaturalist.

Swamp Sparrow

I am making a point to photograph sparrows with as much zeal as I do the flashier birds I encounter, and attempting to put names to their faces. I still have an unfortunate tendency to assume all sparrows are those I am familiar with, and trying to force them into names that don't quite fit ("gosh, that one looks a little like an American Tree Sparrow, but the beak isn't right...and something is a little off...." "That's because it's a Swamp Sparrow, you goof," says iNaturalist*). But I'm working on it!

Sparrows are an interesting group of birds, worthy of attention in their own right even if they prove to be challenging. Different species can be seen in our area throughout the year, each with their own life histories and niches to learn about. And there are only around 20 species commonly seen in our area...how hard can it be?**


*Dramatization, may not have happened exactly as described. These online forums are consistently helpful and friendly to anyone trying to learn.
**It's pretty hard. But worth the effort! 
 

Nature's Reward

It was cold. I had just spent an hour trudging along the south Greenway, near the wetlands and the Sycamore Apartments, without much to see. Some pretty frost that hadn't yet burned off in the early morning sun. A few chickadees and a downy woodpecker, and way across the wetlands I could just make out one of the bald eagles silhouetted in a snag.

I normally walk or bike the length of the trail when I am taking pictures but this lazy morning I drove down, past the two roundabouts on Sycamore and into the parking lot of the apartments. The sun was shining, but it was still cold enough that my fingertips grew numb inside my gloves. Crunching over frozen grass, I flushed a few pheasants (too quick for my camera) and caught a glimpse of a deer fleeing my approach far ahead. I am not as stealthy as I like to hope.

Heading north, towards home, I decided to try my luck at the northern end of the trail, along the north-south segment lined with trees that normally resounded with the taptaptap of woodpeckers. I parked at the end of the new eastward extension of Dickenson and paused at the trail intersection nearby, taking a few desultory shots of the starlings that always hang about in the snags at the edge of the residential neighborhood.

Looking south along the trail, it was dim and quiet. It was still early, so the sun would be behind any birds I tried to shoot. I was ready to just call it a day and head home. But remember the great horned owl you saw there last spring? Yeah, sure. That was a neat surprise. And that little trio of deer you saw a couple weeks ago, down by the sculpture? Yes, yes, also neat. I suppose I can just walk the quarter-mile down to the sculpture and back.

 Not two steps later, I freeze. There was a freaking bald eagle sitting low in a tree, just at the edge of the neighborhood. It was there throughout my silly internal debate about whether it would be worthwhile to haul my chilled carcass along the trail for another ten minutes. After I took a few shots, I debated whether to proceed (and certainly flush it from its perch) or retreat, happy with the blessing that nature bestowed on my cold-be-damned bravado. Lucky for me, the eagle decided that even at that distance I was a little too close for comfort and dropped from its perch, soaring westward with a few strong wingbeats.

I proceeded. Through the woods I could barely see two deer, big and little, at the edge of the clearing opposite. There were bluejays and woodpeckers, chickadees and cardinals. A trio of chubby mourning doves snoozing high up in the sun, feathers fluffed luxuriously.

Nature doesn't disappoint. It can't, because it doesn't owe us anything; we have no right to expect anything from nature. Every time we go out looking for birds, or flowers, or pretty clouds, there is no guarantee that we will find what we seek. But once in a while, we find much more than we were looking for.

A Glimpse of Snowy-White Tail

Nearly all of my encounters with deer have been distant, a quick glimpse of snowy-white tail as the rest of the deer disappears into the brush. Or the slow crawl in a vehicle after a mama and her babies are spotted too-close to the road, picking their way delicately across the street before disappearing into the brush with a flash of snowy-white tail. The common theme is "disappearing into the brush."

This morning on the Greenway I stopped to admire a flock of juncos fluttering, their wings turned translucent, backlit by the morning sun. I must have paused too long, too close; a soft rustle behind me drew my attention to...a quick glimpse of snowy-white tails as a couple of deer disappeared into the brush. I had been fumbling to get the camera to capture the juncos--unzip the backpack, carefully extract the camera, take off the gloves, pop off the lens cap, re-zip the backpack, forget to turn on the power--I didn't bother trying to get a shot. The deer were long gone, and while I was distracted the juncos had moved off to a less-photogenic location. C'est la vie.

I often wonder, after failing to photograph a deer or pheasant, if photography or hunting is the more difficult endeavor? Naturally as a photographer, I conclude photography is the more challenging: not only do you have to point and shoot at the target, you have to have proper focus and lighting as well. The angles have to work out, and the darn critter has to have its face turned properly to avoid shadows while hopefully getting a nice spark of catchlight in their eye. But of course, you can't feed your family with a photograph.

On the way back from my Greenway stroll, I again flushed a couple of deer in the same area. This time I was ready! Or rather, this time the deer were polite enough to turn and stare at me after their initial bolt, instead of moving rapidly out of my range. Mama and a big baby, just a few meters away, watching me watching them for what seemed like several minutes before the youngster grew bored and walked away--joining a third deer I hadn't noticed earlier.

 Mama turned to face me head-on and let out a small snort. I felt a moment of panic--the snort was reminiscent of the noise cartoon bulls make before charging (an unfortunate amount of my visceral understanding of the world came from cartoons; it still lurks below the veneer of proper education)--but, as I later learned, the snort (or "blow") was more a signal of apprehension to other deer rather than a warning to skulking voyeurs like myself. Moments later, she joined her two young and they went on their way and I went on mine.

Since I'm Looking Out the Window Anyway....

I haven’t participated in Project Feederwatch* for the past several years. Since moving to a house in a new subdivision, the yard has been home to a depressingly small variety of birdlife: house sparrows and mourning doves, with some house finches and purple finches hanging around as well. Occasionally a few goldfinches or juncos wander through, and this morning saw an unusually inelegant Coopers hawk bumbling around the ground in the chicken-wire-fenced garden, trying to snatch an unfortunate sparrow that didn’t disappear quickly enough when the predator came into view.

Our previous house was in an older neighborhood, with huge old oak trees and established landscapes. Over an average winter weekend the backyard feeders could host a dozen or more bird species, from titmice and chickadees to three or four different varieties of woodpecker. There were house sparrows and mourning doves there too, but their numbers didn’t dominate the yard. It was fun to log so many different kinds of birds with Project Feederwatch, and note when I saw a record number of species or individuals of a particular species.

Now, at the new house, it was…less fun. Look, 10 house sparrows. No, 12. Now there are 17. Ooh, there’s a junco over in the neighbor’s yard…hop the fence so I can count you! Nope. Where are the house finches? Guess this weekend we saw 17 house sparrows and 3 mourning doves.

I know even boring data is important for science. In fact, boring data is probably incredibly important in establishing baseline data about populations and trends over the course of years or decades. So this year I decided to renew my participation Project Feederwatch for the low, low cost of $18. I will diligently log my house sparrows and mourning doves. No matter how dull the population of the backyard, I won’t cheat and count the crows that sometimes sip water out of the gutter on the front of the house—that’s outside the range of the feeders.

In time, as the neighborhood trees grow and mature, we will see more variety. We will get more cardinals and chickadees—I know they are in the area because I see them on neighborhood walks, just a couple blocks away where the houses are a decade older, the trees a few meters taller, and the birds feel more comfortable than in our wide-open expanses of turfgrass and baby trees. I will be able to watch the change in diversity: what once was dull cornfield, is now dull subdivision, but soon will be a (hopefully) more fully-formed ecosystem.

As the city changes—as houses pop up closer and closer to the Greenway, and streets are planned that will cut through the present-day isolation of the trail—nature changes along with it. Suitable habitat can become a wasteland, and wastelands in turn can become oases for wildlife with a little help from homeowners. Change is inevitable, and one thing we can do as observers is document the effect changes have on the smaller creatures who share our little patch of earth.

If you have a backyard feeder, consider joining Project Feederwatch this winter. It is a fun way to get to know the birds in your area (Cornell Lab offers many resources to help identify common feeder birds), and join a community of enthusiastic bird watchers helping contribute to science.

*Project Feederwatch is a citizen science program by the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. Participants count birds that come to their backyard feeders over a series of two-day periods, as frequently or infrequently as they like over the winter season. 

A Visitor at the Kentucky Coffeetree

taptaptap

The dry, methodical tapping from nearby was the sound of a woodpecker looking for lunch. This was not the assertive, noisy drumming indicating a woodpecker asserting its territory to others, but a quiet, workmanlike tap against something that made a dry rattle.

I stopped to look around, and observed a little Downy Woodpecker, barely larger than a sparrow, clinging to the flattened seedpod of a Kentucky Coffeetree and tapping away. When one pod yielded nothing of interest, it moved on to another and another. Fly, cling, taptaptap. Fly, cling, taptaptap. It would try from the front; it would try along the seams. It would hang upside-down and try from underneath.

Showing off the zygodactyl toes
(two facing forward, two facing
backward) of woodpeckers, parrots,
and a few other species.

When it had apparently exhausted every pod dangling from the naked limbs, the little black-and-white woodpecker flew off in search of a more satisfying meal. It was a charming display, one of those little dramatic events in nature that makes you stop and watch until the actor moves out of sight.

I couldn't find any record of the seed pods of Kentucky Coffeetree being utilized as food by woodpeckers (or any extant creature), as the raw seeds are said to be toxic. There is a sweet liquid inside the pods--perhaps the woodpecker was getting a taste of that? Or perhaps there are insects or larvae making a winter home on or within the pods?




The following week I saw another (or the same) Downy Woodpecker visiting the seedpods of  Kentucky Coffeetree, again moving from one pod to another until chased off by a more aggressive woodpecker (who did not seem to share an interest in the seedpods).



 

Planning the attack.

Winter's on the Way

Everything is winding down on the Greenway. Birds are restless: geese flying in formation above the wetlands, as flocks of blackbirds pass overhead emitting a steady stream of dry chucks. Goldfinches, though not joining the others on their journeys, are active too. Motley in their drab winter plumage, their high, thin squeaks and chatter betray their location as they forage on the abundant seeds left from the summer’s rainbow of flowers.

 It’s always a little hard to watch things slow down and settle in for the winter.

It is almost time to change views, switch from examining each flower for a tiny insect in constant motion and scanning the horizon for each new bloom to watching the textures and shadows of winter, maybe paying more attention to the shape of the clouds and the drops of water clinging to leaves in the early morning chill.

Soon there will be snow and frost, etching patterns on glass and sparkling in the glare of the low winter sun. Instead of wet squelches, footsteps will be punctuated with dry crunches. Concern over ticks and mosquitoes gives way to numb fingers and the sting of ice-cold air in your nose.

Thank goodness for those hardy birds that brave the local weather with us year-round: the cheery cardinals and acrobatic chickadees, the robust woodpeckers and the hearty sparrows. They remind us of the life that has moved south or underground, waiting for the warmth to return in the spring.

What Lives Next to Us

"What worries me more is that most Americans know little of — and care even less about — the spectacular natural diversity surrounding every one of us. We are ignorant of the rainbow of warblers — dozens of species — passing through in migration each spring. We overlook the orchids growing in roadside ditches. Most of us cannot identify what’s singing or croaking or buzzing in our own backyards....

If we do not know what lives next to us, we will not notice when it’s gone."

Bryan Pfeiffer, The Extinction of Meaning

The Sycamore Greenway, like many other trails and natural areas, is a haven for wildlife. It doesn't require a lot of upkeep (though it could certainly benefit from some thinning of trees growing in the northern basins, and some wild parsnip mitigation in the south), just some native grasses and forbs and a bit of space.

The Greenway gives us access to so many small lives that we otherwise wouldn't see. I can plant my entire yard with native flowers and enjoy the bees, butterflies and other insects that come...but they are stuck on an island amid acres of barren turfgrass, some of it laced with poisons from neighbors less tolerant of functioning ecosystems on their property.

The Greenway, on the other hand, offers dozens of acres of mostly unbroken habitat, where common suburban species mingle with slightly less common neighbors. This blog, and the related Facebook page, were meant to introduce people to these neighbors and hopefully inspire, if not the wonder and awe of magnificent endangered megafauna, at least affection for these tiny inhabitants of our own local natural areas.

Without the Greenway, would I have encountered this odd little Physocephala fly, with its flared antennae, waspy waist and two-toned wings? Who knew there were so many different kinds of flies in our area? Obviously, the abundance and vast variety of insects is no secret, but it becomes so much more meaningful when you meet some of these little guys in person.

And these are just the obvious individuals who politely hang out in highly-visible areas on flowers and leaves--imagine getting down in the weeds and grass, how many more different flies would we find--let alone grasshoppers, wasps, bees, ants, beetles, and hundreds of other insects (not to mention all their larvae), all sharing the same space and playing their own small, essential role in it.

Would we miss this Physocephala fly if it were to disappear? Or any one of the hundreds of species out in our backyards? Probably not. But that doesn't make them any less worthy of getting to know.

A Visit to Big Grove

Yesterday morning I skipped the Greenway and instead went to Big Grove Preserve for an informative hike, guided by property steward Ken Lowder. Big Grove is a Bur Oak Land Trust property just a few minutes' drive from Iowa City (Bur Oak owns and maintains 11 properties in and around Johnson County, which are open to the public). It takes a couple of gravel roads to get there, and some poorly-placed "Private Property" signs erected by neighboring property owners may make you think you are on the wrong track (neither the access road nor the preserve are "Private Property" so don't be discouraged if you are trying to visit), but it is worth the trip.

Big Grove consists of a 40-acre parcel of original land along with a newer acquisition of another 40 acres. There is a small patch of prairie flowers near the entry, swarming with butterflies and other pollinators, but most of the land is shady woods. The plant life is much different from that of the sunny Greenway, with tall oaks and hickory towering over white clusters of snakeroot, zigzag goldenrod and occasional blue lobelia. An ephemeral creek runs amid rocky, moss-draped outcroppings.

It is a quiet getaway; visitors can expect silence punctuated by calls of resident pileated woodpeckers, or warbler song as they migrate through. As we walked, Ken told us about some of the history of the land and the work that goes into restoring and maintaining forest.

  When Bur Oak acquired the original 40 acres in 2003, it was overrun with non-natives like garlic mustard, honeysuckle, autumn olive, and multiflora rose--all of which grow thick in the understory and choke out desirable native plants. The property stewards, with help from regular volunteer groups, worked tirelessly to cut back the invaders, giving other species room to grow. The difference between a piece of forest that has been maintained and one that has been left "wild" is night and day: a scrubby, prickly, and impassible area transforms to an open wood that you could drive a cart through (as the woods were described by early settlers). The trees naturally have few lower branches, since they don't receive enough sunlight below the canopy to make them worth the effort to maintain.

Unmaintained woods

Woods after cutting back invasives and burning

As you walk through the woods, you will encounter many tall trees that are girdled, with circular cuts all around their base. These are specimens that have been condemned to die so that the forest may live: for the native oak and hickory populations to thrive, their saplings require sunlight. By selectively killing (but not removing--their corpses provide valuable habitat for cavity-nesting birds) less-desirable trees, the canopy is opened up to allow more sun to reach the forest floor so those saplings can grow.

Early stages of what will be oak savanna.

After a short climb in the newly-acquired parcel, Ken showed us an open section of land that had been used (and was still being used) as pasture, which Bur Oak is planning to restore to an oak savanna. Oak savannas are scenic transition areas between woods and prairie, with grasses and forbs growing in the open sun punctuated by occasional bur oak trees. These savanna trees grow differently from their forest brethren; because they are not competing shoulder-to-shoulder with other trees for sun, they are able to spread their limbs and maintain strong, sturdy low branches. These oaks can survive hot prairie fires that kill competing trees, creating a unique habitat--and a lovely vista.

Although it is wonderful to see land being conserved by Bur Oak Land Trust and other trusts around our state, it is overwhelming how much work goes into simply maintaining them in their "natural state." Because of the invasion of aggressive non-native plants, we can't just leave areas "wild" and expect them to stay "wild." We must treat them instead as huge gardens, constantly weeding out the undesirable and planting and preserving the desirable. And that takes a lot of work--most of it done by hardy volunteers like Ken Lowder and the many other individuals and groups who give their time and sweat to preserve a little bit of our natural heritage.

Moths All Around Us

I know this one at least! Chickweed Geometer (Haematopis grataria)

Since  my misadventure with the Camouflaged Looper/Wavy-lined Emerald recently, I've had more awareness of moths in general. I always knew they were out there; almost every time you walk through the grass on the Greenway you scare up a tiny fluttering thing. I would think, "Eh, it's just a moth" and then continue to chase down the bee or butterfly I had seen earlier.

Not anymore! That little green moth opened my eyes to another world. An often-nocturnal, skulking bunch of insects that normally escapes our attention, save when we see them fluttering around a porch light in the dark, or happen upon one of the magnificent giant specimens that may have expired in the parking lot at work (that one was an imperial moth).

I splurged on a guide: Peterson's Field Guide to Moths of Northeastern North America. What a great investment! The images are all photos of live moths--none of those washed-out pinned specimens. And my favorite part: common names! Unlike the bee world, where few bees go by common names, the authors of this guide list a common name for every moth (if a moth didn't already have a widely-used common name, they assigned one). Weird, wonderful common names like Tearful Underwing, Maple Trumpet Skeletonizer, Somber Carpet, and Drab Prominent. They all sound like bugs I would like to get to know.

Next time I went out on the Greenway, I was determined to try to photograph as many moths as I could. It proved tricky, since they--unlike their flashier butterfly kin--don't seem to want attention. Drab, cryptic coloration, small size, and a tendency to stick to grass and greenery instead of flowers all make it difficult to capture them in pixels. Not to mention their annoying habit of clinging to the bottom of a blade of grass instead of the top!

I was surprised at how many different kinds of moth I saw, just on a short jaunt. I am not yet quick enough with the guide to identify them, but identify them I shall. And if you are a neighbor, do not be alarmed if you see me out in the garden with a headlamp and camera; I'm just looking for moths!

The Snazzerpillar Part II: In Which I Am Revealed to Be an Awful Human

If you tuned in last post, you saw I was besotted with a Camouflaged Looper, the larva of a Wavy-lined Emerald moth. After observing its changes of adornment until it snuggled into its leaf-adorned cocoon, I safely ensconced it in a white mesh cube designed to house Monarch caterpillars in hopes that I could get some photos of the handsome green moth it would become.

So I waited. Every time I passed through the room I would veer over to peer at the cocoon, looking for changes. I had high hopes of getting some pics of it emerging from the cocoon, perhaps sitting quietly as its wings expanded and dried out in a similar display to that of newly-eclosed Monarchs. Once it posed nicely for photos, I would gently release it back into the garden.

There is very little information to be found about the Wavy-lined Emerald life cycle; most information focuses on the flamboyant caterpillars with only a brief mention and photo of the adult moth. One website mentioned it took about seven days from the moth to emerge. A week passed, with no change to the cocoon. Monarchs normally emerge from their chrysalis after 10-14 days, so I waited another week. Still no change.

Alas, I thought. The conditions in the house must not have been appropriate to the pupating of my little caterpillar. I decided to kidnap a Monarch caterpillar from the garden and see if I could rear it in the little box as a kind of penance. After plopping it on the bottom of the container with some milkweed leaves, I left it alone overnight.

The next morning, checking on the chubby Monarch cat, I noticed something down in the seam of the contained.

My heart dropped.

It was a little moth, motionless on the bottom of the mesh box. My caterpillar had emerged, unbeknownst to me (the cocoon, covered in snippets of dried leaves, never seemed to change appearance), and after who knows how long, quietly died without ever having a chance to live.

I felt awful. The worst. I killed this poor moth with my affection, this handsome little thing that I took from its habitat so I could selfishly photograph it, having never seen such a moth before. I imagined it futilely beating itself against the soft mesh wall, attempting to reach the streetlight or the moon outside the window. I don't know how long these moths normally live; if they eat as adults or not. I just know this one never had a chance.

Faced with this evidence of my disastrous caterpillar-rearing abilities, I quickly scooped up the Monarch caterpillar and put it back outside on a milkweed leaf, hopefully none the worse for my  attention.

Feeling ghoulish yet not wanting the Wavy-lined Emerald's death to be entirely in vain, I carefully took the nearly-weightless carcass outside to take some photos and laid it to rest in the garden whence it came. I will in the future limit my "appreciation" of these and other insects to a safe distance.

The Snazzy Gentleman (Lady?)

I recently mentioned that every time I go out on the Sycamore Greenway I discover a new favorite bug. After several decades on this earth, I am consistently finding new creatures that I've never encountered, not off in the distant woods or wildlife refuges but just down the street. I just had to learn to slow down and look.

And it doesn't even have to be down the street...they are right in my own suburban backyard! Out one day taking photos of bees on the Ratibida pinnata, I noticed one of the flowers had little yellow petals sticking up from the normally smoothish brown cone of its head. That's odd, I think, and move in to inspect this odd floral mutation.

And it started crawling away! It was not part of the flower but rather a tiny little brownish inchworm with pieces of bright yellow petals stuck to its back, an effective camouflage rendering it nearly invisible while it was motionless.

A particularly flamboyant dresser.

Fascinated, I did some research and quickly learned my dapper little inchworm was an (aptly-named) Camouflaged Looper (Synchlora aerata), the larval form of a tiny green moth known as the Wavy-lined Emerald. These adorable little inchworms eat a variety of flowers, and will snip tiny pieces of petals to affix to their bodies using silk. This allows them to feed on a variety of flowers and disguise themselves at each different kind (discarding old petals and adding new), rather than being limited to the specific host plant with which one's naked body blends in. When it is ready to pupate, it will trade its colorful floral coat for one made up of foliage, and affix itself to a stem where it will remain until it emerges in all its mothy splendor.

Right after being moved from Ratibida pinnata to ironweed.

Once I discovered the first camouflaged looper, I soon noticed several others, both in my garden and on the Greenway. Curious to see its fashion sense in action, I kidnapped one and brought it to a flower pot on my deck filled with orange nasturtiums. I also plucked a variety of different-colored flowers from the garden and stuck them in the pot as well (the camouflaged looper normally likes composite flowers so I was sure to grab several of those). I placed the yellow-petaled worm on a rich purple cluster of ironweed flowers and let it do its thing.

A couple hours later, the worm (as it was now affectionately known) had indeed placed a smattering of purple petals among its original yellow clothing. For the next couple of days, every time I came home I would go inspect the worm to see what it was up to, spending many minutes in the blazing sun on my deck searching to the clever little guy and hoping he hadn't fallen to the ground or been plucked up by a hungry sparrow. 

Beginning to change its wardrobe.

Too quickly--after barely two outfit changes--the worm covered itself in dried brown nasturtium leaves and hunkered down on a stem a few inches below the flowers. I couldn't see its little body underneath all the snippets of leaves, hard as I tried to spot the shape of a cocoon.

On to the leafy outfit!

I have never seen a Wavy-lined Emerald moth, though they must be in the area given the abundance of larvae. My worm has been safely ensconced in a white mesh cube designed to keep Monarch caterpillars, and hopefully before too long I will see my first little green moth.

So stop and watch the flowers for a few minutes this week. You never know what you will find!

Current state: pupa.