Flashes of Color in the Trees Brighten Up the Holiday Season

 

Pigeon Berries

 

Red berries on evergreen holly trees are classic symbols of hope and joy in snowy climates. In the Virgin Islands, we have lots more options for seasonal delight among the local trees. 

 

Most visible are the Pigeon Berry trees (Bourreria succulenta), which are thick with bunches of small fruits turning from green to orange to red – many more berries than pigeons to eat them. I tasted one of the reddest berries myself, but it did not spark joy, so I left the rest for the birds. 

 

Guavaberry trees (Myrciaria floribunda) are harder to find and are just now producing fruit. These berries are used to flavor the traditional West Indian holiday drink brewed with wine and rum, raisins, other fruits and spices. They also add a touch of vitamin C to the sugary concoction.

Guavaberries

                               

 

There are some Canker Berry trees in my yard too (Solanum bahamense). These small trees are in the nightshade family and are common in coastal areas in the West Indies. They are related to tomatoes, and the little berries do look like tiny cherry tomatoes, but they are not good to eat.  

 

Canker Berries

                            

 

Across the road there are a few red berries on a low Jumbie Pepper plant (Rivina humilis), also sometimes called Cat’s Blood. They look dark and inviting, but the word ‘jumbie’ in their name indicates they may be dangerous. 

Jumbie Pepper 

                         

Another tiny red fruit caught my eye on a small tree near the south shore (Crossopetalum rhacoma). It is called Maidenberry by the US Department of Agriculture, which sounds very demure. However, in Jamaica it has sometimes been called Poison Cherry. Nevertheless, it is apparently sweet and eaten by some birds and other wildlife. 

 

Maidenberry

                            

 

Sweet Lime or Limeberry (USDA) Triphasia trifolia, is not native but has become naturalized in the Virgin Islands. In some areas it has become invasive because the birds enjoy these small red fruits and spread the seeds widely. When my sons were small, we used to eat a few of them too – only the very ripe, reddest ones. 

 

Sweet Lime

                            

 

Though all these berries are bright and cheerful, the most fun spot of red I see in the trees is  when a Scarlet Ibis comes by my house and lands in the black mangroves. 

What a gift!

Scarlet Ibis

                          

Heavy Rains Bring a Burst of White Butterflies

                             

Although some years there are hardly any butterflies, this November there have been hundreds of Great Southern Whites fluttering around our house in St. John. They aren’t all white though. You can see dark wing edges on the top side, and the underside wings tend to be different shades of yellow.

 

Some people say they feel like they are walking around in a Disney movie when the butterflies swoop around, and up close the butterflies’ faces do look a bit like cartoon characters. 

A distinguishing characteristic of Great Southern White butterflies is their turquoise antenna tips. 

Where do they all come from? It seems like a miracle when they show up and of course in some ways it is. This year I have been trying to learn more about what’s going on with them. 

 

At times you can see them over water, and there are some types of Great Southern White butterflies that do actually migrate, at least for short distances. However, the ones in the Virgin Islands – Ascia monuste eubotea –  are home grown and not migratory. But they are definitely seasonal.    

 

Many insects have seasonal cycles of activity and then seem to disappear when environmental conditions are unfavorable – like when the weather turns cold up north. In the islands, it is the dry season that makes life difficult for insects, and some have learned to wait out the droughts in various stages of development. 

 

In the case of these white butterflies, it seems that their eggs go into a kind of dormancy called diapause during the dry season, and then revive and hatch when there is lots of rain again. That’s when many of the plants enjoy rapid growth spurts as well, and some plants and trees will also put out flowers as part of their own reproductive cycles. Those flowers provide nectar that feeds the new butterflies, while the butterflies in turn provide pollination services for the plants. Synchronization makes the ecological system work.    

 

One of the main host plants for Great Southern White butterflies in the Virgin Islands is the native Limber Caper. Host plants often have chemicals in their leaves that make the caterpillars and butterflies unpalatable to predators. 

 

When I went out searching in the yard, sure enough, I found little patches of tiny yellow eggs on the tops of some of the limber caper leaves. 

                        

  

When the eggs hatch, the caterpillars eat the leaves. If there are enough leaves on the plant, the caterpillars thrive, and the limber caper is not significantly harmed. 

 

                         

  

Some of the host plants did seem to be overloaded with caterpillars and chewed up leaves, while others were relatively untouched. 

 

                         

I brought one of the bigger caterpillars inside to see what it would look like in its pupa stage. I thought that with all those butterflies around there would be a whole bunch of pupa cases, but I only found one empty case hanging on the underside of a leaf. 

 

The caterpillar I brought inside was done eating limber caper leaves and wasted no time starting to transform into a pupa. 

 

Then about 10 days later a new butterfly emerged – with just a few days to fly around in the sunshine, drink nectar, find a mate, and produce new eggs. 

 

The only times these butterflies sit still for more than a few seconds is when they gather to drink from puddles or wet areas. Then when they get close, sometimes one thing leads to another, and the cycle of life continues. Until the days get dry again. 

Butterflies attach back-to-back when they find a mate.   

 

When the rainy season has passed, there is a point at which the butterflies producing eggs receive an environmental signal, and release neurohormones that somehow initiate the diapause in the eggs they lay. Those eggs will be resistant to desiccation, and will wait quietly until the next rainy season arrives before springing into action. 

 

The process really does seem miraculous.    

 

Searching for Sweetgrass in Maine

 

Since I had organized a discussion earlier in the summer about the book Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer, I thought I would look for some Sweetgrass while I was up in Maine in August. Kimmerer is a botanist and Native American writer who offers stories “that allow us to imagine a different relationship in which people and land are good medicine for each other”. 

 

In her tradition, Sweetgrass is viewed as the “sweet-smelling hair of Mother Earth”. Native Americans have traditionally burned dried braids of Sweetgrass for smudging or purifying ceremonies, to attract positive spirit energy. The grass can also be used to make medicinal teas, and for basket weaving.   

 

The scientific name for Sweetgrass is Hierochloe odorata – meaning fragrant, holy grass. It is widespread in the northern US states, especially near wetlands and across the prairies. 

 

I figured I should be able to find some near my family’s house in mid-coast Maine, but I didn’t know where to look.  

 

There are lots of kinds of grasses around, and I had never thought to learn anything about them before. 

 

I examined some grass samples on our family property, and it was interesting to learn the names of some of the different types I had seen so often over the years, even though they weren’t what I was looking for. 

 

I read that Sweetgrass likes moist soil and went to check out a patch I remembered down by the marsh through a trail in the woods. That turned out to be scratchy on my fingers and not sweet, so I left it alone.

 

                                 

 

 

My cousin who has a nursery business further down the coast knew of something called Sweet Flag and kindly delivered a bunch of that for me to consider.

 

                               

 

These stalks had fat ridges in the center that made them difficult to braid, and smelled more swampy than sweet. Still, I appreciated the gift and didn’t want to discard them. 

 

I ended up cutting thin ribbons from the sides of the stems and these were flexible enough to be easily bent and braided. I shaped the rough braids into a circle, sewing them in place like the beginning of a braided rug, similar to the ones my grandmother had made out of felt. I read that colonial women in this area may have begun to braid rugs after observing the traditional grass mats made by Native American women.

 

                                

 

A few days later I visited a friend a bit further north who has amazing garden and a broad knowledge about plants. Finally, someone who knew about Sweetgrass. She even had some growing in a pot on her porch. It smelled wonderful, a bit like vanilla. She had ordered it from a catalogue, though, and did not know where it might grow locally.  

 

                                   

 

She was generous enough to allow me to pick enough Sweetgrass stalks to make a braid. I read that traditionally there are seven stalks in each of the sections of the braid. These represent the gifts of wisdom, love, respect, bravery, honesty, humility and truth, which help people learn to live in harmony with the earth.   

                                                

 

Kimmerer writes that “the sweetest way to braid the grass is to have someone else hold the end so that you pull gently against each other, all the while leaning in, chatting and laughing…”

I engaged my husband to hold the end of the bunch of Sweetgrass while I was braiding, and we did in fact laugh and chat while we were doing it. 

 

I hung the braid by the stairs in Maine and enjoyed the surprise of the scent in the house each time I passed by. 

 

I was still wondering where it might grow wild in the area, but got busy with other activities.

When we went hiking on a wild offshore conservation island, I examined a bright, swampy area. Beautiful grass but not sweet. 

 

                          

 

Then, a couple of days before returning to New York, I stopped to see another friend nearby. I mentioned my Sweetgrass quest, and he said he actually knew where to find some – there was a place along the bank of a tidal inlet where Native American people he knew sometimes came to harvest it. 

 

 

My husband went with me to help locate the unmarked path, which led through scrub and brambles onto a sunny area filled with what people sometimes call ‘salt hay’. 

 

                          

 

I started examining and sniffing the different plants growing there, following what looked like tracks from someone tamping down the grasses by walking around sometime earlier. 

                       

 

Eventually, back near the tree line, I spotted a patch of low grass in among a taller group, partially shaded, that looked similar to what I had gotten from my friend’s pot. And when I picked a strand, it had that now-familiar sweet smell. Success!

 

                                      

 

I was careful to give thanks to the plants for allowing me to harvest a few of their stalks.  

 

I am also grateful to Robin Kimmerer for inspiring me to learn more about the land my ancestors settled on, the names of the plants growing there, and the history of the people who inhabited that land for centuries before my European ancestors arrived.

 

Indigenous stories and practices are rich in wisdom, but the history of native people since Europeans came has been one of violence and terrible losses. However, although the current condition of the earth may lead to feelings of despair, Kimmerer offers the possibility of working towards restoration as an antidote to despair – with the goal of restoring a life-sustaining form of economy and civilization. 

 

In order to heal the earth, and our relationship with it, Kimmerer challenges us to set aside the ways of the colonists and become indigenous to the places we live. That would involve acting with respect in our relationships with each other, as well as towards plants and other species that provide us with gifts of food, medicines and materials.

 

It also means viewing the land not as a commodity but as our teacher, healer and benefactor, which is now in need of our help. 

 

 

Look Out for Land Crabs

Many people don’t ever see the land crabs in the Virgin Islands because these crustaceans live in the mangrove wetlands and mostly come out at night. The large blue kind (Cardisoma guanhumi) look a bit ghostly, and can grow to about 5 or 6 inches across their backs. They have one large claw and one smaller, thinner one. And their eyes stand up on stalks. 

 

The females are not so blue - more of a light gray. And the juveniles can be brown, orange or purplish. 

 

 

Although these crabs live on land as adults, they generally stay close to the water. They dig big holes in the mud to hide in, several feet deep, with enough water at the bottom to keep their gills damp. 

                            

 

After breeding on a full moon during the rainy season, the females deposit their eggs a couple of weeks later into shallow salt water nearby. As they grow up, the young ones may be carried by currents to other shorelines.

Our house is close to the land crabs’ territory, and they sometimes climb up the hill to visit. I occasionally wake up to hear them rattling around on the front deck, which I don’t really understand. They mostly eat leaves and vegetation, plus maybe some insects and dead things. There might be some of those things near our house, but a lot less than down by the mangroves. I think they might just be curious. 

                             

 

I was frightened of them at first. Especially when I saw them waving their big claws around. 

 

                              

 

They could possibly give you a sharp nip, though it seems that the small claw is the sharper one.

I learned that they are able to cut through tough stuff when my older son decided to catch one and tie it up with fishing line. 

 

We had sometimes seen people hunting for the crabs at night with flashlights and putting them in buckets. We were told they were good to eat, especially with rice, or in a local soup called callaloo (or kallaloo). But first you have to feed them corn for a couple of weeks to clean out their digestive systems – because of those dead things they might eat. 

 

So my son was going to keep the crab in a bucket and feed it clean food, but didn’t have a cage so he tied a piece of the fishing line to the crab’s leg and then to the bucket handle. The next day he was disappointed to see that the line was cut through and the crab was gone. 

 

The Yellow-crowned Night Herons also like to eat crabs, and aren’t so particular about how clean their food is. The night herons have thick bills that they use to punch right through the crabs’ shells. 

 

                           

 

I sometimes see crab pieces lying around below the house, and shells with sharp bill-sized holes cut in the back. 

                          

 

Once I even saw the visiting Scarlet Ibis walking around with a crab leg in its mouth. Its long bill is meant for digging in the mud, not poking holes in shells, but apparently it was strong enough to tear off a crab claw. I’m not sure about how the bird gets the meat out, though. Maybe it has to swallow the whole piece and then dissolve the shell with its digestive juices.     

 

                          

 

It’s a complex struggle for survival in the mangroves, and I sometimes feel a bit sorry for the crabs. Their shells look pretty tough, but they are actually quite fragile. As are their wetland habitats, due to the effects of climate change and human encroachment. But meanwhile I am happy that the birds I love have a good supply of food, which makes them want to stay around the neighborhood. 

 

What Makes Hummingbirds Sparkle – And Why?

 

In the bright morning sunlight, local Green-throated Carib hummingbirds can seem like precious winged jewels. They look lovely to me, but I wonder what’s in it for them. I don’t imagine they are posing in the sun just for my benefit, even though I do sometimes feed them sugar water. 

 

I read that the feathers on their throats are called its ‘gorgets’, which was the word used in olden times for the neck protectors worn by knights in shining armor. Does a sparkling gorget actually protect the hummingbird in some way, or is there some other evolutionary advantage they get?  

 

 

Up close you can see that the feathers on the front of the hummingbird’s neck are circular, and overlapping like scales. Structures within the feathers reflect and scatter the light so that when the bird moves its feathers look quite differently in a variety of light and postures. Is it trying to get attention from a prospective mate, or scare off intruders? Or just enjoying the sunshine?

 

In shadier situations, these hummingbirds still have their green throats with blue edging, but appear duller. And most of the time I just experience them as tiny dark shapes darting around among the flowers. 

 

 

 

I decided I needed to find out more about how feathers get their colors in the first place, and then how they sometimes appear so shiny. 

 

Most of the colors we see are based on pigments – molecules within cells that absorb or reflect back various wavelengths of light. I learned that bird feathers, like our hair and skin, are made of keratin, and have cells that produce melanin pigments at the molecular level in ‘melanosomes’. Melanin generally shows up as color granules in the birds’ feathers, and enables the feathers to absorb all the wavelengths of visible light. That doesn’t allow for much reflection, and mostly creates dark colors. 

 

In some birds, though, the melanin crystals are combined with tiny air pockets within the feathers. The result is that light is scattered as it hits the bird and creates a form of ‘structural coloration’ that causes us to see those feathers as green and blue.  

 

   

 

I also learned that red, orange and yellow colors don’t come from the birds’ melanosomes but from carotenoids, which are plant pigments that reflect light from the red/yellow section of the spectrum. 

 

However, birds can’t internally produce the carotenoid compounds that create these brighter colors. To get red and yellow feathers, some birds are able to consume carotenoids in their food and then store the pigments in their feathers. They could be eating plant material containing carotenoids, or eating animals that have already consumed plant carotenoids. For example, the flamingoes and scarlet ibises get some of their bright coloring from eating shrimp, which may in turn have been feeding on carotenoid-carrying algae. 

 

 

 

A Scarlet Ibis is certainly bright due to its carotenoids, and its feathers do seem to have different shades depending on the light, but it is does not flash sparkling color like the hummingbird. 

 

Hummingbird feathers have a special form of structural coloration. They are able to shine so brightly because their pigment-containing melanosomes have an unusual pancake shape, and also contain lots of tiny air bubbles. The bubbles are stacked in layers that create many different surfaces for light to bounce off. Taken all together, these adaptations produce shimmering iridescence, when the angle of the light is right.

 

 

 

 

Why would hummingbirds go to so much trouble to develop iridescent feathers?

 

Theories about hummingbird iridescence often focus on its role in attracting potential mates. Interestingly, birds have four color cones in their eyes, while we only have three, so they can see a broader range of colors, including ultraviolet parts of the spectrum. That affects how they perceive flowers, which often have ultraviolet coloring we can’t see, and also probably affects how attractive they look to each other. 

 

It could also be a protective adaptation. A bright flash of the hummingbird’s gorget could momentarily distract a predator. Or its iridescence might also serve as a form of camouflage, as the bird seems to appear and disappear by moving in and out of the light, causing confusion about its actual position.  

 

I don’t like to think that the shiny hummingbirds I see in the yard actually view me as an intruder and are giving me a signal to get lost, rather than just showing me how pretty they are.

 

Yet the truth is that they are quite complicated beings, and we really don’t know much about how they actually perceive us.  

 

Whirlwind Romance in the Wetlands

A couple of Seaside Dragonlets whizzed over a wetlands pond.

When I saw the two dragonflies together, I assumed they must be lovers. But if so, it was a strange embrace, as they seemed to be attached tail to head. 

And they were different colors – the one in front was blue and the back one was orange. 

Were they two different types of dragonflies having a battle over territory? 

 I was sitting by the black mangrove pond near my house with my telephoto lens, waiting to see what birds might appear, so I was in no hurry and was able to watch – and document – the interesting dance of the dragonflies. 

Later when I looked up the different types of dragonflies found in the Virgin Islands, I learned that these were a couple of Seaside Dragonlets, about an inch and a half long. The male is the blue one, and the female is orange. But what were they up to? 

Another time I had seen what I thought were dragonflies mating, and they were locked in a dramatic ‘wheel’ embrace. I was thrilled to get a photo of their amazing posture! 

A pair of Argia concinna damselflies (male above) hooking up on a grass stem

Those actually turned out to be damselflies, but they are closely related to dragonflies, and I read that the wheel position is the norm for mating dragonflies as well. The male’s sperm is released from the center of his abdomen, so the female (below in the photo) has to reach her tail end up and around above her to connect with the male’s abdomen and complete the ‘mating wheel’, while he keeps a tight grip on the back of her neck. 

The damselflies were perched on a sturdy piece of grass. The Seaside Dragonlets, however, are apparently more acrobatic and can do the wheel position thing even while they are flying around. 

When the male dragonfly spots an attractive female, he will fly up behind her and grab her with his legs. Then he scooches up and uses two special grippers at the end of his tail to clasp her tightly by the neck, in what is called ‘tandem linkage’. After that, they figure out how to maneuver themselves into the wheel position. 

These Seaside Dragonlets demonstrate ‘tandem linkage’, with the blue male in front gripping the female behind him with special clasps on his tail

The dragonlet couple I saw must have already finished mating. But they were still attached as they flew by. And it wasn’t just a loving embrace. I read that the male will keep his tight hold on her neck until she deposits her fertilized eggs in the pond. That way he can make sure that she doesn’t go around mating with other competitors in the meantime, as she might otherwise be tempted to do. 

A female dragonlet dips her tail down to deposit eggs in a shallow pond. 

While the dragonlets were hovering over a shallow edge of the pond, the female lowered her tail down into the water, and appeared to be releasing her eggs. They flew back and forth, and repeated this process several times in the same spot before finally taking off and disappearing. 

The male dragonlet (blue) keeps a tight grip on the female’s neck as she deposits her eggs.

When the eggs hatch, the tiny larvae, called nymphs, will swim around hunting for even smaller pond creatures to eat. As they grow, the nymphs will molt many times before finally crawling out of the pond, developing wings, and becoming adult dragonflies. 

Most dragonflies breed in fresh water, but the Seaside Dragonlets are uniquely able to tolerate the salty water in the Virgin Islands’ brackish mangrove wetlands, as well as more northern salt marshes. The nymphs are able to regulate their internal osmotic pressure to avoid damage from high salt concentrations. 

I hadn’t paid too much attention to the dragonflies by the pond before, so I was glad to be able to get some photos of these dragonlets and learn a bit more about them.

Are Sugar Feeders Healthy for Bananaquits?

Bananaquits are called 'Sugar Birds' in the Virgin Islands

 

Many people like to attract the local bananaquits by putting out sugar or sugar water. But some people ask if that is actually good for the birds. 

 

I have been one of those questioners. It is certainly fun to have an eager bunch of birds waiting for you to get up in the morning and fill the feeder. Still, for a long time I resisted getting a feeder because I thought the bananaquits were better off finding their own food in a normal bird way – like catching insects in the trees or poking their curved bills into ripe fruits and berries, or getting nectar from flowers (and in the meantime helping with pollination). 

 

Besides not wanting to interfere with the broader ecology, I also didn’t want the birds to become fat and lazy, or dependent on humans. Or sick.

 

I did sometimes put out a bowl of water for them during dry times, but wasn’t sure that was really good for them either. Some birds drank the water while others got into the bowl to take a bath. I was afraid those dirty feet in the drinking water might spread diseases.  

 

 

Then the 2017 storms stripped the islands of vegetation, and the bananaquits and many other plant-dependent birds were desperate for food. A number of people made great efforts to put out sugar for the bananaquits, and that probably helped many of them survive that terrible time. 

 

After the storms, I started to feed the bananaquits too. But I still worried about it. 

 

At first, I put out sugar water in a bowl, and had the same issue with certain birds using it for baths, even though their feathers must have gotten a little sticky. Sometimes they even knocked over the bowl in their exuberance. 

 

Then I got one of the popular painted coconut husk feeders made by Ital Delroy Anthony on St. John. I decided putting sugar water directly inside the coconut would make things moldy, so for maximum cleanliness I used a plastic cup sitting inside the coconut. That way I could wash it every morning before refilling it.

 

                        

 

Then one of my birder friends suggested that I should just give them white sugar directly from the bag. That seemed less messy. Also a more satisfying user experience for the birds – the crystals are easy to grab and take away, and more birds can get served quickly. Of course there is still quarreling and jockeying for position, but overall there is less spillage, and no one takes a bath in the cup.

 

Before long, I started worrying about whether the bananaquits, like people, could get diabetes and other ailments from eating too much white sugar. 

 

After some research I learned that wild birds are generally not susceptible to diabetes in the same way that we are, in part because they have much higher normal blood glucose levels. But I didn’t see any studies that said eating white sugar was actually good for them.  

 

Their natural diets include insects for protein, as well as fruits, berries and nectar – which contain vitamins and other nutrients. Of course, if there aren’t enough fruits and flowers around, white sugar seems better than not eating.   

                          

 

I also began thinking about why bananaquits would even eat the sugar crystals, since many birds won’t. 

 

One thing I learned is that, unlike many birds, bananaquits are able to digest sucrose, which is naturally found in sugar cane, sugar beets and many plant nectars. White sugar is pure refined sucrose. It can be difficult to digest because sucrose is composed of two simple sugars, glucose and fructose, chemically bonded together. Nectar-eating birds without the enzyme needed to break that chemical bond have to depend on plants and flowers that produce glucose or fructose. 

 

Locally, Antillean bullfinches are able to digest straight sucrose too. In fact, a male Antillean bullfinch is often the first one at the sugar feeder in the morning.  

 

                      

 

Hummingbirds can also digest sucrose/white sugar, but for them it needs to be diluted in water – about 4 parts water to one part sugar – to resemble the nectar they drink. (Many sources warn not to use honey, raw sugar, brown sugar or artificial sweeteners in hummingbird feeders, as these may cause digestive problems, contain residues and impurities, or lack nutrients.)

 

                      

 

Interestingly, the bananaquits will also drink from the hummingbird feeder when their feeder is empty, sticking their tongues into the little holes to get the sugar water. Their tongues are not as long as hummingbird tongues, but apparently long enough to reach the sugar water. Much to the annoyance of the hummingbirds.  

 

                       

I love to watch the birds enjoying their feeders at breakfast time. I am careful to keep the feeders clean, and limit the amount of sugar I put out so they can still spend most of the day foraging for themselves.

 

I do hope that the feeders benefit the birds as well, especially during the times when flowers and fruits are scarce. Still, I would like to know more about how these interactions I enjoy so much actually affect the lives and long-term health of the birds.