The following is a Post that never seemed to have gotten posted. It is from just about this time last year.
I sit on a sun-warmed stone amongst garden flowers that hum with the sound of busy aviators and whisper with the delicate wings of such dignitaries as sport iridescent green coats and ruby neckties and powdery laces that flutter flower to flower. Summer is here, and the thistle family makes no small effort to be noticed by the commoners and aristocrats of the neighborhood alike, for, from the unweeded patch at the bottom of the yard their purple heads bob about in the gentle breeze, trying to outcompete the nearby wisteria I thought I eradicated last fall.
Orioles and finches, Robins and Doves, in faint hints of mockery to Merlin's simplistic explanation for the meanings of their calls, twitter and sing elaborately in the same tree above my head, conducting an organized, aural joust in the great Maple's acoustic canopy at as competitive a level as can be peacefully possible. I listen attentively for a breathless moment, trying to sort out their multitudinous syllables and define their intentions, but I leave it to the breeze that carries their voices aloft and settle simply on the usual explanation of primordial urges to defend territory and summon a mate.
Mr. McGregor would envy the thick radish patch untouched by furry things that ought to be turned into meat pie. Perhaps I planted them too close together, but they will soon be pulled to give the corn, that just now peaks above the tops of the radish greens, some elbow room. Double planting thus far seems to be a brilliant endeavor, especially for a plant enthusiast that has (very) limited cultivating space and an over exuberance when confronted with a catalog of seeds!
Camera in hand, I watch all sorts of colorful and monochromatic insects utilize the thistle plant--as egg-laying substrates for the Cabbage White, nectar source for the Fritillaries, stomping grounds for any number of the Formicidae family--and imagine the interesting variety of Coleoptera, that by sheer hinderance of their incapacitating larval stage, will not be arriving until later this summer.
My ponderings bring me back to my very organic and natural garden (live and let live is strictly enforced and so all sorts of things sprout up without my having anything to do with it) and I happen to notice a small rustle in what used to be a thick lettuce patch, but has recently been mysteriously disappearing. Since the lettuce went to seed a few weeks ago, I have given no thought to catching the thief and so I casually glance over the hot stone wall. Not surprised in the least to see it, and hardly phased to see me, I take a video of a young groundhog caught red-handed—well, green handed—eating my lettuce. Unlike an actual gardener, I can't say I care in the least that I have been sharing my yields with something that ought to end up in a meat pie, and since Mr. McGregor is unable to scold me, I stick to my principles and live and let live (rather happy on the side that I have a cute video to share).
A Fritillary (Great Spangled?) harvests nectar from a thistle flower
