Ducklings Born in Princeton!

In a humble coop behind our house on busy Harrison Street, a mallard named Swee' Pea found herself sitting on five ducklings this morning, where five eggs had been the night before. She had been patiently sitting on the nest of straw, feather down and eggs for several weeks. Yesterday, my daughter noticed Swee' Pea becoming increasingly territorial, hissing and thrusting her beak at anyone who came close. Now we know why.

Buttons the Araucana chicken checked things out from a safe distance,

while the father, Ronnie, lacking cigars, took a dip in the tippable duck pond that gets fresh water from the roof gutter every time it rains.

The other ducks normally don't go back in the coop in the middle of the day, but today they did, apparently out of curiosity.

Congratulations, Swee' Pea!

Meanwhile, the owners of said ducks and coop are sent scrambling to the internet to ask a recurring question in animal husbandry, "Now what?"

Diverse Reactions To Scavenger Diversity--Iguazu Falls, Argentina

People's attitudes and beliefs tend to be resistant to change. Great effort is spent by political columnists and advertisers seeking to change minds, usually to no avail. An exception to this inertia of the mind happened during a recent trip to Iguazu Falls in northern Argentina, where perceptions of various wildlife shifted radically over the course of a day.

If there happen to be any plants or animals reading this blog, a bit of advice. I know most of you really don't care what people think of you. You're just trying to survive in the real world, unaided by the womb-like umbilical cords of piped water and energy that people have built for themselves. Not easy, I'm sure, and I respect that. But if you do find yourselves starting to care, and want people to gasp with admiration upon witnessing your splendid form, then consider a few basic principals. If you're a plant, play well with others. Don't overwhelm or dramatically displace. If you're an animal, strive for a balance. Be generally aloof but make surprise appearances so that people can delight in their good fortune. You are of course expected to participate in your natural foodchain, even if it means occasionally being eaten. Above all, avoid tapping into the trash humans carelessly leave behind, or raiding their gardens. The temptation is huge, I know, but this is a slippery slope towards a bad rep.

This Plush-Crested Jay is a good example of that slope. Taking a boardwalk to a lookout above the massive Iguazu Falls in Argentina, we thought ourselves fortunate to catch a glimpse of this colorful bird.

We felt less lucky when the jay showed up for lunch the next day on the hotel patio. We're appreciative, of course, of the greater diversity of scavengers that a national park provides--a nice break from the usual song sparrows and squirrels. But a word to the wise, here. It's bad manners to eye people's food over their shoulders.

This dove is being much more discreet, averting its gaze in a respectful manner.

Fine to eat peanuts while holding them between your feet,

but the least you can do is wait until all the guests leave before moving in on the leftovers.

And you're teaching the mockingbirds bad habits. Of course, have to say: nice job cleaning the plates, and reducing in some small way the organic component of the wastestream.
But you'd get more respect

if you stuck to posing at a distance, flattering those who brought superzoom cameras.

A good zoom and a high boardwalk also reduce the risk of photographing a caiman, which seemed to understand that its big teeth are a plus as long as it keeps its distance.

The rodents didn't make much of a show. We saw no 100 pound, 4 foot long capybaras--the largest rodent in the world--nor guinea pigs, a wild relative of which is said to live here. But we did come across this delicately structured agouti exhibiting appropriate wildlife behavior, grazing photogenically at a discreet distance from human traffic.

It's hard for insects to win friends, which makes the butterfly's success all the more impressive. Suck nectar, not blood. Dazzle with color and phantom-like flight. Hang around flowers and tree bark, not restaurants.

Perhaps this monkey had taken to heart the signs warning people about its capacity to steal food and even bite, because it was limiting its behavior to wonderfully adroit and graceful harvesting of seeds up in a tree.

Got to say, though, the coatis are blowing it. Cute balls of fur with a ringed tail. Great first impression.

But those bold forays into eating areas are problematic.

Snarling over candy wrappers? Wrestling in the walkways? Our biggest change in perception came when one grabbed the bag of empanadas set next to us on the bench, and dragged it off into the woods. That's not scavenging; that's blatant theft.

They're not even fazed when restaurant managers start coming after them with sticks. It's almost like they think they're as smart as we are. Being kin to raccoons, they may not be far off the mark. In fact, all of the more aggressive scavengers were also the most intelligent--jays, monkeys, coatis. Intelligence may be the real slippery slope, bringing with it the capacity to think outside the ecological box, break free of the foodchain, spot opportunities, and give in to temptation. Sounds like the history of another mentally enabled species I know.


An extensive writeup on the wildlife of Iguazu can be found here, including photos of toucans.

Ducklings Coming?

One reason my younger daughter was eager to get home from a trip has to do with a certain female mallard named Swee' Pea, who decided a couple weeks ago that it was a good time to make a nest in the chicken/duck coop. She sits there for long periods, taking periodic breaks to get water and food. The contents of the nest are kept warm during these breaks by a blanket of down.

Before leaving, my daughter shined a light through one of the eggs and detected motion in what looked like a reddish cloud in the egg. She left clear instructions, just in case our friends who took care of the ducks while we were gone didn't notice the well-disguised nest.

"DO NOT DISTURB ME AND MY EGGS"

The sign clearly worked, because Swee' Pea and eggs were safe and sound when we returned. At this point, the ducklings are moving about in the eggs, their motions detectable by 13 year olds but not yet by adults. Though this is largely a take-things-as-they-come approach to having birds in the backyards, there are questions to ask and decisions to be made. If we actually do end up with ducklings, do we separate them from Swee' Pea and raise them in a bathtub in the house? Or do we separate off a portion of the coop for her to raise them? How will the other birds behave around the ducklings? Will the male, Ronnie, play any role? I'm interested to see if the mother will promptly march the newborns off to the nearest minipond, to get acquainted with the joys of water.

Searching for Echoes of the Carolina Parakeet

In the pampas of Argentina, where green-colored parakeets chatter and fly overhead in twos or threes,

and pigeons perch in trees rather than on buildings, it's easier to imagine what sights North America might have offered before the Carolina parakeet and the passenger pigeon went extinct in the early 20th century.

Argentina can seem a parallel universe, ecologically, suggesting that species in North and South America evolved from common ancestors, and now display a mix of similarities and differences. This bird, common in a suburban landscape an hour outside of Buenos Aires, does a good imitation of the Northern Mockingbird found in Princeton. It may be one of the southern mockingbirds shown in this link.

The ranges of close South American relatives of the Carolina parakeet, according to the Wikipedia writeup, don't extend down to the Argentine pampas. Nor did the Carolina parakeet build giant nests like the one seen in this Eucalyptus in the pampas. In fact, it's hypothesized that one of the many and varied factors causing the Carolina parakeet's demise may have been the introduction of the honey bee into North America. The bees colonized nesting sites formerly used by the birds.

The nest builders encountered in the pampas turn out to be Monk parakeets, native to Argentina, though the eucalyptus trees they prefer for nest-building come from Australia. The now-common eucalyptus, planted in a landscape historically dominated by grassland, has contributed to a population explosion of the parakeets.

Each nest has multiple holes, each housing a mating pair.

Monk parakeets, also called Quaker parrots, have a parallel presence in New Jersey, where some escaped 40 years ago to form self-sustaining populations, most notably in Edgewater, NJ, where they enjoy their own website and the support of human advocates.

Their nest-building in NJ has caused controversy when applied to utility poles, which can lead to power outages. Maybe they're encouraging humans to lead a more sustainable, off-the-grid lifestyle, of the sort they clearly have mastered.

Though they give aid to the imagination, none of the pigeons in the pampas are close relatives of the passenger pigeon. For those, one would have to travel to the western U.S. to see the Band-tailed pigeon, or to Patagonia in southern Chile and Argentina to see the Chilean Pigeon (Patagioenas araucana).

In another twist in the ancient and modern links between North and South Americas, like the Australian eucalyptus trees common in the pampas, the pine tree this unidentified pigeon is perching on is also an import, from the northern hemisphere.

Asphalt-Eating Plant

One of the sillier things people do is plant Bermuda grass next to asphalt. In another place and another time, I advocated for using native seedmixes for planting the bare ground next to new biketrails, so the trails could become corridors of native diversity. Another approach, in some ways preferable, is to stabilize bare ground with an annual grass that will allow the local flora to reclaim the ground in succeeding years. Instead, the powers that be planted Bermuda grass, a perennial turfgrass that excluded native species and proceeded to eat the asphalt. Counterproductive, to say the least.

I've seen this effect in Princeton as well, where a homeowner probably threw down some Bermuda grass seed to fill a bare spot. The grass then spread through the lawn to the driveway, where it began eating away at the edges. Bermuda grass is a warm-season grass, which means it can be most easily spotted in a lawn during the winter, when it turns brown.

Monocultures in the Making

Around Princeton, I've been watching with a sense of foreboding the increasing presence of two species that, though still uncommon here, have proven extremely invasive elsewhere. One is of Asian origin, the other a native from the coast that's rapidly expanding its range.

Chinese bush clover, also known as Sericea lespedeza (Lespedeza cuneata), is widely used by departments of transportation (DOT) to quickly vegetate ground made bare by road construction. When it was introduced, it was hailed as a good wildlife food, but later analysis showed that its seeds, smaller than native bush clover seeds, passed through birds' digestive systems intact--convenient for the plant's dissemination but useless for the wildlife. Though Chinese bushclover is good at holding soil in place, it is so aggressive that it excludes other grassland species, forming in time a monoculture. It serves one environmental goal (erosion control) while sabotaging another (biodiversity).

In Princeton, Chinese bush clover can be found most frequently along Transco's pipeline right of way, either planted intentionally or accidentally introduced as a contaminant in a seed mix. These rights of way currently host a fairly diverse mix of grasses and wildflowers, but given Chinese bushclover's behavior elsewhere (the photo shows a freeway embankment in Durham, NC), it's only a matter of time before those rights of way lose their diversity and most of their value for wildlife.

Particularly with so many rights of way being built or expanded, there's an urgent need to shift to seed mixes with species that establish quickly but also allow a diverse mix of native species to establish over time. I fought this fight while living in North Carolina, suggesting alternatives like the native partridge pea or, if need be, exotic species that would establish quickly but then allow other species to move in. Together, roadsides and rights of way comprise a vast amount of acreage. What grows in them helps determine how hospitable the world is for wildlife and plant diversity. If you've ever tried to reform a Department of Transportation, though, you know what it's like to be David going up against Goliath, holding a partridge pea flower instead of a slingshot.

When I first encountered Groundsel Tree (Baccharis halimifolia) along an abandoned trainline in NC, I wondered what was this distinctive, attractive bush with the abundant white flowers so late in the fall. In recent years, though, I've watched it take over meadows, shading out the herbaceous species, and completely dominate along roadways, replacing diverse vegetation with a monoculture. Baccharis is native to the eastern U.S. coastal plain, but has spread inland to the piedmont along roadways, and is beginning to show up along Route 1. (Photo is from I-85 in Durham, NC)

This license plate speaks for all who witness nature being gradually thrown out of balance.

Distinguishing Carpgrass from Stiltgrass

Most people are familiar with Japanese stiltgrass (Microstegium vimineum), the now ubiquitous annual grass that forms dense pastures of green in the shade of forests, and thrives in miniature in lawns.

Less common, confined to wet areas, is an invasive look-alike called carpgrass (Arthraxon hispidus). The curly edges of the leaves give it away. Google "carp grass" and you end up with links to information on grass carps, an Asian fish brought to the U.S. to control invasive aquatic plants.

Zimbabwe Great To Perform Saturday at Pettoranello Gardens

Two loves, music and nature, come together this Saturday at Pettoranello Gardens. Oliver Mtukudzi occupies a special place in our household. His 2002 album, Vhunze Moto, is my number one favorite music to dance to. The only other thing I know about him is that he will be performing at Princeton's Pettoranello Gardens this coming Saturday, July 20. To have this legendary musician from Zimbabwe performing for free in Princeton is extraordinary. (The following night he'll be headlining a performance in New York's Central Park.)

From Blue Curtain's Facebook page, it looks like a group from Cameroon called FRANCIS MBAPPE and the FM Tribe will perform at 7pm, with Mtukudzi and the Black Spirits coming on afterwards. Whether the music will correspond to what I've listened to again and again on a favorite album is hard to know, but there's only one way to find out.

More on Mtukudzi at his Facebook page. You can also use google to find videos, or find snippets of tunes on his albums at Amazon.com.

A previous experience hearing music at Pettoranello Gardens as a storm rolled in can be found here.

(Also posted at PrincetonPrimer.org)

Cicadas, Monarchs, and June Beetles in July

Some insects are easy to identify, like the first summer sounds of cicadas a few days ago.

Also the first sighting of a monarch butterfly in the garden, with a fresh pair of wings, feeding on newly opened flowers of swamp milkweed. Maybe the garden will serve as nursery for the next generation of Monarchs, ultimately leading to the late summer generation that will fly all the way back to those few acres of forest in the mountains northwest of Mexico City, where the whole eastern population overwinters.

But what's that large insect flying low over the grass in the frontyard? A few showed up last week, and now there are maybe six or seven that circle and hover, but refuse to stay still long enough to allow a good look.

No, they aren't those scarily named cicada killers, or bee flies, or hoverflies.

Caught in my daughter's butterfly net, the insect revealed itself to be a scarab beetle, specifically a Green June Beetle. The southern species is called a Fig Beetle, after its taste for the fermented juice in damaged fruit.

Here's a description from the Penn State website of their summer flying habits and one-generation-per-year approach to perpetuating themselves:

"Females fly over the turf’s surface early in the morning, while males fly from mid- to late morning. Females produce a substance that attracts the males to them prior to mating. After females mate, they dig into the turf to lay a cluster of 10 to 30 eggs in a compacted ball of soil about the size of a walnut. Females prefer moist organic soil. The eggs are nearly round, about 1/16 inch in diameter, absorb soil moisture, and hatch in 10 to 15 days. The grubs are nocturnal feeders and consume decaying organic matter. Larvae molt three times until they reach the third instar. As cool fall temperatures arrive, the nearly mature, 1½-inch third-instar grubs dig deeper in the soil to overwinter."

Part 3 of Making Gardens Last--Westminster Parking Lot

Neighbors on Linden Lane fought hard a couple years ago against the expansion of the Westminster Choir College parking lot. Seeing water collect in the open field, I had often thought it would make a great wetland garden for all the beautiful native species that prosper in wet ground. Despite arguments to the contrary, the parking lot was built, but because of stormwater regulations, some of the land was devoted to receiving runoff from the pavement in a small scale version of what I had imagined. In this first photo, a native wildflower seldom seen in Princeton gardens, Blazing Star (Liatris sp.) was planted in a large raingarden that serves as buffer between pavement and neighbors. It's bizarre to see crew members armed with weed whippers tending this planting, but they somehow manage to keep the grass down and the blazing stars up.

Two other raingardens, though, running in narrow strips between sections of the parking lot, have been left to grow up in weeds that hitchhiked in with the trucked-in topsoil. Blazing star and cardinal flower are blooming just as the landscaper's plans had envisioned,

but most are lost in the ocean of weeds and will likely be killed if the competing weeds aren't removed.

The weeds can be an interesting field trip in and of themselves. Horse weed is a native that grows tall and gangly.

Haven't seen pigweed much around Princeton, but obviously it's flourishing wherever the topsoil came from.

Smartweed (Polyganum sp.) often has what looks like a thumbprint on its leaves.

This weed, Queen Anne's Lace, a.k.a. a wild version of our carrot (Daucus carota) is ornamental. It's not native, and can get rambunctious in midwestern prairies, to the point of displacing native species, but has not been particularly invasive hereabouts.

If you look closely at the middle of the plate of tiny flowers, you'll find a purple dot.

Despite being of some botanical interest, the weeds dominating 2/3rds of the parking lot plantings are not what the original plan called for.

The Westminster parking lot planting is a good example of how native plants and the use of raingardens have become integrated into requirements for construction, but the maintenance side of the equation has not caught up. Maintenance, despite determining the ultimate success or failure of a planting, is given low priority, and ill-trained crews often end up doing more harm than good. The right plants go in, for the most part, but if they aren't knowledgeably maintained, you'll still end up with a failed planting, a lost investment in beauty, and a reversion to a boring trees n' turf landscape.

(Photo shows a Clethra alnifolia competing with the weeds.)

Chain Saw Gardening--the Sequel

A couple weeks ago, after witnessing the now neglected gardens planted at Harrison Street Park three years ago, I walked over to the Whole Earth Center, where a man was trimming the raingarden with a chainsaw. I didn't ask him to pose for a photo, but you can see plant debris littering the sidewalk.

A clipped bit of soft rush, no match for a chainsaw blade, was being held up for examination by the resident frog. It seemed inauspicious, that a garden I had installed a few years back was being given the chainsaw treatment. It happened last year with another raingarden down the street. But this time around the chainsaw treatment didn't go much beyond trimming back some of the native mistflower that had been leaning out over the sidewalk.

Strange to say, this garden is actually prospering despite the complete lack of coordination between the various entities who care for it. There's the crew hired by the out of town landlord, which lays down fresh mulch in the spring and this year added the chainsaw to its arsenal. In addition, there's someone on staff at the Whole Earth Center who does occasional watering, and then I stop by when I think of it, adding a few plants here and there. Some of what I plant gets smothered by the mulch, or gets pulled out unwittingly by the landlord's crew, but actually communicating with the other caretakers would be harder than dealing with the periodic setbacks.

Its success comes also from an auspicious hydrology. Roof water, which normally would go directly from the downspout out into the street, is instead funneled through a perforated pipe running just underground along the garden's full length. This extra dose of water allows the fringed sedge, soft rush, buttonbush and mistflower to prosper.

Before this was a garden, it was an elaborate sculpture of wooden stumps and logs installed by Peter Soderman. From what I heard, the fire officials took exception to all that wood next to a building, so only a couple pieces remain.

If I had thought of it, I might have suggested the man with the chainsaw trim back the pre-flowering stages of cutleaf coneflower and boneset on either side of the flowering oakleaf hydrangia. They'd simply bloom a little later, and be less likely to flop over. But who knows what a little encouragement would cause him to do next time.