Photos of the Week – October 10, 2025

The fall migration is in full swing through our prairies. Dragonflies, birds, butterflies, and more are moving southward. Going out on dewy mornings is a great way to check up on butterflies and dragonflies because I can find them immobile and covered in dew on their overnight roosts. This week was a big week for variegated meadowhawks (dragonflies), apparently. I found dozens of them at our family prairie one morning (more photos toward the end of this post).

Variegated meadowhawk at sunrise. Helzer family prairie.

There are lots of little brown birds skulking in the vegetation this week. Many of them are grassland sparrows of various species, but there also were a bunch of sedge wrens at our family prairie. Most of those birds are hard to see unless you flush them while walking through the prairie, but just standing still is also a good way to hear them as they rustle around in patches of tall grass. The sedge wrens made it easy because they not only rustled, they also called to each other with their machine gun songs (“Dot Dot d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d!”).

One of many sedge wrens hiding in the grass this week.

Monarchs are far from the only migratory butterfly (not to mention moths) coming through. I’ve seen a lot of painted lady butterflies this week and found a few orange sulphurs that (probably?) were on the move. There was a cluster of pearl crescent butterflies in our yard this week, too, but as far as I know, those aren’t migratory. They looked like they’d all recently emerged as adults, so they’d better hurry if they’re going to lay eggs before freezing temperatures hit!

Orange sulphur in the morning dew.

As I see the abundance of flies still active at this time of year, I can’t help wondering how many of them are migrants. A year ago, I wrote a post complaining about the lack of North American research on migratory flies. I’m sure that spurred a flurry of activity among researchers (eye roll) and that we’ll soon know a lot more about the topic. In the meantime, I’m left to wonder, especially about all the different drone flies and hover flies I see. Are they just scrambling to eat (and lay eggs?) before frost? Or are they fueling up during a long southward journey?

A gorgeous dew-covered fly. Is it a migrant or resident? I don’t have any idea. Lincoln Creek Prairie.

Most insects, of course, don’t migrate, so they have to survive Nebraska winters however they can. That usually involves finding a sheltered place to hide and then just withstanding freezing conditions. Species vary in terms of whether they go through winter as adults, eggs, or larvae/nymphs. All of those options seem to work ok.

This katydid thought it was hiding from me on an early morning this week. I’m not sure whether this species lives through the winter as adults or eggs.
Another shot of the same katydid.
Male American bumblebee (Bombus pensylvanicus) roosting on the underside of a tall thistle leaf.

A lot of the individual insects out and around now will simply die as winter hits. The only bumblebees, for example, that survive the winter are the fertilized females that will be next year’s queens. Everyone else in the colony will perish at the end of this season. Other insects that lay eggs before winter will also die after completing that task. I imagine that abundance of dead insects provides a big bonanza of food for any animals out poking around after the first big freeze or two. If not, bacteria, fungi, and other microorganisms will clean up the rest.

This caterpillar was literally hanging around on some big bluestem (remarkably camouflaged!) this week. I imagine it’ll spend much of the winter frozen solid, either as a caterpillar or pupa.
Stink bug on big bluestem.

Plants are also shutting down for the year. Most wildflowers and grasses are finished blooming and have produced seeds if they can. Perennial prairie plants are also making buds. Woody plants make buds aboveground where new leaves or stems will emerge next year so the plants can continue to grow larger (assuming they don’t get burned, chewed, or cut down). Herbaceous plants, though, including grasses, wildflowers, and sedges, create buds at their bases, usually right below the surface of the soil.

Over the winter, the entire aboveground portion of perennial herbaceous plants dies back. In the spring, though, those plants will start a new season of growth from their basal buds. Seeds are still important for those perennials, though, both because it allows them to combine DNA with others of their species (cross-pollination) and because it lets them spread progeny into new places. Seed dispersal strategies are fascinating and beautiful, and it’s a fun time of year to see a lot of them in action.

Indiangrass seeds dangling from a seed head, ready to be carried off by a breeze or passing animal.
This milkweed seeds are poised to fly off in the wind once the sun dries the dew drops from them.

Late summer and early fall are great times for dewy mornings. Those water droplets are a boon for insect photographers, but they also make nice photo subjects on their own.

Dew drop hanging from a leaf after sunrise.
Another dew drop on a leaf.

Back to the abundance of variegated meadowhawks this week… I can’t remember seeing so many at a time before, but that doesn’t mean much. I tried to quickly photograph a selection of those I found at our family prairie one morning, but I just kept finding more and more. Here are the ones I managed to photograph:

There was one dragonfly in particular that was perched attractively on top of some stiff goldenrod as the sun came up. I circled back to it a couple times as it started warming up and managed to photograph it from multiple angles while it was still too cold and wet to fly away. All the rest of the photos below are of that same individual.

I don’t know how much longer this late season flurry of activity will last, so I’m trying to catch as much of it as I can. I’ve gotten behind on some projects because I’m trying to see things before they’re gone, but I’ll have the whole winter to catch up, right?

Celebrating Sticky Seeds

Early autumn is a season of surprise and wonder.  Colors are changing and animals are scurrying all around, trying to check off all their pre-winter tasks.  For nature enthusiasts like us, it’s also a great time to appreciate the complex and sophisticated ways plants move their seeds around the world.

For example, there’s the unexpected prick of joy when you accidentally sandwich a heretofore unseen sandbur between calf and hamstring as you kneel down to re-tie your boot laces. 

(I think that’s the first time I’ve ever used the word “heretofore”.  I hope I used it correctly.  I would have used “previously”, but when I typed it out, the spelling looked wrong for some reason.  Brains are funny.)

Sandbur (Cenchrus longispinus).

Anyway, upon discovering the sandbur, you immediately stand back up, lick your fingers, and remove it (and its friends) from your pantleg.  As you have so many times, you ask yourself why licking your fingers helps it hurt less when you grab sandburs.  Surely, the surface tension of saliva can’t provide that much protection?  Regardless, seeing and feeling the sandburs is a terrific way to celebrate their particular seed dispersal strategy. Hurray for nature!

After you identify a winding path that will allow you to avoid more nearby sandburs, you step forward – only then remembering that you’d stopped to tie your boots.  That’s when you glance down and realize that your boot laces must have pulled loose when you walked through a patch of cockleburs a little way back.  Now, a cheerful cluster of cocklebur seed pods is tangled happily in your laces like spiny little meatballs in a plate of spaghetti. 

Cocklebur (Xanthium strumarium) along a wetland edge.

As you start to carefully extract the pods from your laces, you can’t help but marvel at the similar, but different architecture of cockleburs and sandburs.  Sandburs, of course have long, straight, sharp spines protruding in every direction from their mostly-spherical core.  Those spines have an impressive ability to penetrate nearly any material.

Cockleburs, on the other hand, have what look like dozens of tiny fish hooks sticking out of their football-shaped bodies.  Those hooks can poke through clothing (and boot laces), but they’re more likely to snag than poke, with the little hooks acting like a bunch of tiny grasping claws.  Of course, if they do manage to penetrate clothing or laces, the hooks also make it much harder to extract them.  It’s a really remarkable design.

The strategies of both cockleburs and sandburs are sure effective, you think, as you continue de-tangling your laces.  Also, it’s fun that both of them have “bur” in their names.  That, of course, brings back memories of learning the difference between burs, stickers, thorns, and spines at some point.  You obviously don’t remember what those differences are now – it’s been at least three or four years since you last looked that up and no one can be expected to retain information that long.  It’s fun to know there are differences, though.

Also, it’s weird that the word bur can be spelled with either one “r” or two.  You know that bur oak is definitely spelled with one, though people do insist on adding that second one, don’t they? 

Apart from the name of that tree, which definitely, always has only one “r”, you recall doing a little research a while back and learning that both bur and burr are considered correct spellings in certain situations.  There are burs that are seed pods and burs that are rough edges on metal and it seems to you that people argue whether those two should be spelled the same or differently.  Ah well, someone will probably figure that out and then people won’t have to argue anymore.

Close up, you can see the tiny hooks on the cocklebur spines (thorns? prickles? poky things?).

Anywell, you finish removing the last cocklebur (surely not cockleburr?) from your laces and leave the pods on the ground – having done them the favor of carrying them to a new potential home.  Isn’t it nice to play a helpful role in the dispersal of seeds?  You’re an actual conservation hero.

Well, hero, as you proceed through the prairie (by the way, you’re walking in a prairie), you take a detour around a big patch of tick clover plants.  You’re no fool, after all.  Tick clovers are beautiful, important wildflowers, but their seeds are like little Velcro packets that are good reminders of where the name “tick” clover comes from.  Taking on the role of a seed disperser is all fine and good, but you’re in charge of fixing supper tonight and won’t have time to both do that and scrape a load of tick clover seeds off your long-sleeved shirt.  A wandering deer will surely do the tick clover dispersal without you needing to become involved this time.

Side-stepping the tick clover takes you along the boundary between the prairie and a small adjacent woodland.  As you walk along that edge, a tentacle appears to lash out from beneath the trees and grabs onto your pants.  Startled, you pull away, but the “tentacle” leaves behind a linear string of small sticky pods.  You stumble slightly over a gopher mound, and as you catch your balance again, your leg is caught by two more of those tentacles, which turn out to be branches of the amazing stickseed plant.

Stickseed (Hackelia virginiana) hangs out mostly in woodlands, at least around here.

Stickseed has an even more descriptive name than tick clover.  The sticky “pods” carried by the stickseed branches are, as you oddly recall, actually clusters of four little “nutlets”, each containing little barbed prickles.  I dated a girl named Barb Prickle in high school, I think. 

I’m joking, of course.  Barb wouldn’t have given me the time of day.

Returning to the present, stickseed and its prickly nutlets are magnificent examples of nature’s innovation.  You know from experience that trying to rub the little nutlets off your pants will just cause them to roll along the fabric, never loosening their grip at all.  It really is a spectacular evolutionary achievement.  Well, you’ve owned these pants for almost four months now, so it was probably time to replace them anyway.  It’s a small (well, medium) price to pay for a front row seat to this lovely demonstration of seed dispersal mastery.

A close up of the nutlets with their tiny barbed prickles.
Stickseed seeds (and a little foxtail) on my hiking clothing.

You manage to pull one of the little nutlets loose to inspect it with the hand lens you always carry on a string around your neck.  Under magnification, the little prickles sure don’t look like they’d be as sticky as they obviously are.  As you’re pondering that, you turn to continue your hike and walk straight into a chest-high patch of tick clover. 

Well, look at that, will you?  The pattern of tick clover seed pods across the front of your shirt is really visually attractive. It’s like a free participatory public art project!  (Hm – the seed pods are not really pods.  What are they actually called?  Loments?  Loment segments? No one knows for sure.)  Either way, it’s loments like this that make you really ponder the awesome power of evolution.

This is Illinois tick clover (Desmodium illinoense) but there are lots of species with very similar sticky seeds (or loment segments).

You’ll have to pull those whatever-they’re-called off later, of course, because any that make it to the laundry will still be attached when the shirt comes out of the dryer.  Except, obviously, for a few that will detach and re-attach in fun, surprising places on other pieces of clothing.  That’s ok, picking tick clover seeds off a shirt later tonight will give you something to do while you’re browsing through the internet for new pants.

Speaking of tonight, look at the time!  All this marveling at the wonders of nature has taken the whole afternoon and you’d probably better get on the road so you can get home in time to make supper.  You’ve got leftover pulled pork in the fridge.  That, some fresh carrots, and a bag of chips will make a pretty nice dinner.  Maybe you’ll even stop at the grocery store on the way home and grab a nice jar of barbed prickles to complete the meal.