My Sabbath

They're invasive, I'm told, and they show up every year at this time, this year not in as great an abudance as last, but with enough vigor and power that they turn absolutely untended native quarters into something approaching Japanese gardens. They go by the name of Dame's Quarters, and I honestly wish I had some in my backyard. Look at that belt of beauty just across the river. The offending flowers themselves are tiny actually.

But when they come, they come not as spies, battalions (that's Shakespeare, and he's not talking about Dame's Quarters). They come en masse, which doesn't make them French.

I am olfactorily challenged, if you catch my drift. Thusly, I don't--which is to say can't--smell them. By reputation, they do cast a fragrance into the air they inhabit, a fragrance that is said to work aphrodisiac-ly, a sweet thought that, at my age, could be fatal. And no, I didn't bring a bountiful bouquet home for my wife. 

One man's bitters is another's blessing, I suppose, so don't tell the yellow swallowtails all those lavender blessings are invasive. Yesterday, I sat beside the river after carving a path through a jungle of underbrush (we've had wonderful, almost daily rain showers) and watched as three or four swallowtails drew what pints they could from a million Dame's Quarters.

It was a river-front feeding frenzy. They didn't pay me the least attention. They're easterners mostly. They range from Boston to the Black Hills, which puts these Sioux Countians a significant distance out west for the tribe. All I know is that they were terribly busy and evidently thrilled by the Dame's Quarters, of which there was more than enough to satisfy the crew hanging around the river. 

I was tired and sweaty from breaking a trail through all that undergrowth, so I sat there and waited for them to flit close enough for me to get a good shot. While I waited, I created some parables with the Dame's Quarters. With any spiritual vision whatsoever, a preacher should be able to create a sermon from this one, don't you think? 

or it's reversal--

This is the world of Infowars--and that Russian thistle is Alex Jones (I watched 15 minutes of the Jones special last night, then turned it off--15 minutes is more than enough.)

Or how about this?

The detritus of long-gone floods outlines the banks of the Floyd right here, a big bundle of old branches that won't move until the next deluge. Lo and behold, even there, with very little good earth, the Dame's Quarters takes root and diffuses its sexy smell (I'm told) by muscling out a place to grow and glow. 

My inherent Calvinism creates a powerful penchant to preach, but then I could have done worse on a hot Sunday afternoon than dream up moral visions--why apologize? It was fun. And nature offers a wonderful pulpit--just think, this beautiful bit of lavender is a scourge. There's a sermon there too.

When finally I left the river bank and walked back into the prairie on my way back to the pickup, I was beat, tired, sweaty, and hot, lugging a camera, a bag, and a grass shear in 90-degrees heat, nary a cloud in the sky, the air was full of song--if you can call it that. 

The dickcissel's raspy voice swept over the neighborhood, the soundtrack of the prairies, someone called them. This little visitor with the huge chattering voice is back, once again, all the way from Chile, reminding me that even in a woods thick with underbrush, splashed with Dame's Quarters, and a covey of 
Eastern Swallowtails, I was, just yesterday, very much a citizen of the world. 

By the way, rumor has it those Chilean dickcissels are undocumented. Don't tell Fox News.