Walking down the hollow road this morning, I find a white breast feather from a large bird — a hawk? An owl? — lodged between a stem and leaf of foxtail millet. There’s a story here: some small mammal squirming in the talons, raking a feather loose.
Foxtail millet, fox grape, foxfire: pale imitations of their namesakes, lures for the unwary. The wild seen as deviance and degeneration from an original garden. Perhaps. It makes a good argument.
For more than a week, an ambush bug has maintained the same position near the top of a black cohosh inflorescence while the white bloom has migrated up the stalk. I nudge the insect with the tip of my pen to see if it’s alive, and it moves slowly to the other side of the stalk. Fairy candles, some call these midsummer blooms.
So many woodland flowers are white this time of year. Across the road, enchanter’s nightshade is in bloom, delicate white flowers that will turn into sticky little fruits — minimal burrs — and ride away in the silky fur of small animals: skunks, raccoons, foxes.