Jarful of clovers

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Eastern Promenade, Portland, Maine

There are five to six kinds of clover in this jar, all picked from the same vicinity on the waterfront.

  • The big purple one is (of course) red clover, Trifolium pratense. 
  • The fluffy one is rabbitfoot clover, T. arvense.
  • The little yellow one is called hop trefoil or low hop clover, T. campestre.
  • The raggedy one on the bottom left, with some brownish flowerlets, is white clover, T. repens.
  • The pink one at 9 o'clock is a species I don't know, or maybe a deviant of one that I do.
  • The weird one on the right with the elongated flower stalk is called white sweet clover, and it's pretty closely related to the others (note the three-parted leaves), but it's actually in a different genus - its Latin name is Melilotus albus.

Guess what! Not a single one of these is native. Well, MAYBE that pink one.

Milkweed Chronicles, part 1

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While running on the shrubby hillside paths along the Eastern Promenade the other day, I noticed a monarch butterfly perched, stereotypically, on the only milkweed plant in sight. I stopped to look at her orange and black stained-glass wings - I think it was a she, because the black veins looked kind of thick and I didn't see a pheromone patch on the hindwing. Then she took flight in the same direction I was going, so I walked along with her for a while.

Sketched later that day, on a different part of the Eastern Promenade, Portland, Maine

The path is hemmed in by bushes on both sides, so there was a tunnel effect that kept the monarch close by as she floated along a few feet above the ground. Periodically she dipped down to a plant that apparently looked promising as a nectar source (I'm assuming... or maybe she was searching for milkweed plants to lay eggs on). 

The briefest contact with the leaves seemed to inform her that a given plant was neither a milkweed nor any of her other favorite nectar-producing species. She continued onward without actually landing until we finally got to a patch of milkweed plants, where she finally paused on the leaves. But then she kept right on going - maybe because the flowers hadn't quite opened up yet?

We came to the end, where the path opens onto the sloping lawn of the Eastern Prom. Her desultory flight, now unconfined, took her out of view almost immediately. And I'd thought we were friends.

(Stay tuned for Milkweed Chronicles, Part 2...)