Field Notes—

May’s Irresistible Invitation

By Curtiss Clark

It was one of those early May afternoons where the breezes move in sprints and pauses, like robins foraging the lawn, and a squall of cherry blossoms settled upon us as we took a break in the sun on the terrace. Kate and I looked up from our preoccupations at the windward tree to watch the show, and there in the midst of this whirl of white was a flash of orange — orange and black.

An oriole was celebrating itself as the first to feast upon the tree this year. He plied the blossoms for nectar, working one branch then moving to another, and another. The regular winged riff-raff in the yard will be attacking the tree in six weeks when it will be waving sour cherries in the breeze before them like tiny toreador capes. And on the Fourth of July, if there are any cherries left, we will make a pie. But for now, this beautiful and rare visitor has got the tree to himself because of his preference for nectar. The cherry tree suits him. And he suits the tree.

When we think of pollinators, we think of honey and bumble bees, or moths and butterflies. Aside from hummingbirds, which are pretty good insect impersonators, we don’t think of birds as being interested in blossoms, but orioles do their fair share of pollinating.

May has been a big month for blossoms since a time before there ever was a May — or months for that matter. I like to believe that the world’s first flower set the planet spinning inexorably toward its very first May. Back in 1998, The New York Times reported that researchers found fossil evidence of what they believe may be the first instance of a flower, encased in limestone and volcanic ash near the town of Beipiao, 250 miles northeast of Beijing. The fossilized plant was from a spring 142 million years ago. It appeared to be “a spindly twig with pea-pod shaped fruit and a woody stem” — not something you would send to a lover. But the seeds encased in the pod structure were a rudimentary fruit, marking an evolutionary diversion from a plant world of spore-flinging mosses, liverworts, and ferns. The fruit required pollination, which meant the plant needed some means of attracting pollinators. Roll out the flowers.

Flowers evolved right along with their pollinators, each adapting to the other, creating great variety and beauty in both plants and animals. Blossoms would incline to an evolutionary path that favored certain pollinators; insects and birds would return the favor for their favored flowers.

In his explorations, Charles Darwin found an orchid in Madagascar with a foot-long tube leading to its ovary. He predicted the existence of a moth in the area with a foot-long “tongue” adapted to pollinate this unusual flower. More than 40 years after Darwin’s death, a giant hawk moth with just such a tongue was discovered.

The great inflorescence of May sweeps across our property, from the violets and ajuga in the grass to the topmost branches of the fruit trees, redbuds, and dogwoods. Perfectly situated at nose level are the viburnum, lilacs, and delicate daphne blossoms, wafting their ineffable fragrances through open windows, coaxing us out into the open air and their service. In the woods and meadows, trout lily, dutchman’s breeches, trillium, saxifrage, maystar, mayapple, and scores of other early bloomers are sending out petals, stamens, and pistils like invitations to favored suitors.

Flowering plants seduce creatures of every sort — humans included — away from a variety of self-serving preoccupations to the cause of plant survival. In May, there is something for everyone. It is a time when living things stand together in appreciation of each other and this life we share.

(More than 75 other essays in Curtiss Clark’s Field Notes series can be found at www.field-notebook.com.)