Image of mourning cloak on paver

The Butterflies Awaken

Mourning cloak on bark

Unlike the many summer butterflies who proliferate on our warm-season blooms, the mourning cloak isn’t much of a flower fancier, instead taking her sustenance from sap upon emerging in early spring. She doesn’t linger for her glam shots either, sensing our apparently formidable presence and absconding before we even open the front door.

A tough cookie, she’s one of the longest-living butterflies, surviving the winter in tree crevices, leaf litter, and cracks in structures with the help of internal antifreeze substances. Yet she’s afraid of my shadow, often taking off into the trees when I’ve hardly yet realized she’s there. A nervous Nelly, she doesn’t float so much as flit—a common behavior among spring butterflies inhabiting the canopies.

Mourning cloak on swing
After watching a mourning cloak’s flight path toward this wooden swing surrounded by switch grass, I traced her path and approached quietly from behind to further observe her. Said to be named after similarly colored attire once worn during grieving ceremonies, mourning cloaks inspire anything but sadness. They’re a harbinger of spring, one of the first visible creatures to beautify the still-brown landscape.

Last year I spent a week of early afternoons in hot pursuit of my elusive friends, sitting in several locations around their favorite elm tree and waiting with what I thought was infinite patience. It wasn’t until my knee became a surprise runway for a butterfly landing—and I caught only the tail end because I was engrossed in my iPhone—that I realized how unready my spirit was for the privilege of close encounters with this shy species. (I described the experience in a post called Emergence.)

Mourning cloak on swing rail
Mourning cloaks live much longer than most butterflies – up to 10 months or so. Most adults will likely die not long after mating and laying the eggs of a new generation in the spring.

Forced to sit still, listen, watch, read and think for long stretches this past winter while writing a book, I have undergone my own metamorphosis since the last time these beautiful creatures awakened. This season, it hasn’t taken long to learn how to revise my approach—both physical and mental—to studying them. More than anything else, it helps if you put down your tool of distraction long enough to examine their flight patterns and basking behaviors. Moving deliberately is also key. In Butterflies through Binoculars, Jeffrey Glassberg provides tips that seem to be written directly to my clumsy old self: “Unfortunately, butterflies are pretty good motion detectors. So, you need to slow down. And be more graceful. The more slowly and gracefully you move, the less likely you will frighten the butterfly.”

Mourning cloak in wind
Trying to hold himself up in the wind, this mourning cloak shows the bark-like camouflage of his outer wings.
Mourning cloak blown by wind
After a cold winter, strong March winds didn’t deter this fellow either; he repeatedly pulled himself upright while basking in the intermittent sunshine.

The last thing I want to do is frighten any creature, so this year’s sightings of mourning cloaks and other butterflies in the brushfoot family have had me tiptoeing around the front yard as if I have tiny brushfeet of my own. When a mourning cloak landed directly in the path through our front garden as I headed to the post office last week, I postponed my outing, retrieved my camera, sat on the stoop, and waited. It didn’t take long before the return appearance, and over the next half-hour I moved my legs and arms ever so slightly to get closer to the little beauty. In the process of watching the butterflies over the next few days, I saw them blow over in high winds and then right themselves again once the gusts had passed. I noticed their wings becoming more tattered. I discovered other insects that I’d never have come across—including a beautiful painted hickory borer—without the spring butterflies as my guides.

Mourning cloak caterpillar
While removing what I thought was garden “debris” a few years ago, I came across this mourning cloak caterpillar, likely on his way to pupating. The experience taught me not to sweep away leaves where many small creatures overwinter, nest, and feed.

It was an Eastern comma butterfly’s repeated refills from the tap of elm tree sap that led my camera lens to that hickory borer cruising up the bark nearby. But the comma herself kept a wide berth, darting away as I tried to capture an image but then flying teasingly over my head after I gave up and decided to refill the birdbaths and weed the elderberry patch instead. One afternoon I parked in my chair and took photos from a 30-foot distance, lamenting that the Eastern comma still did not think me evolved enough to join her inner circle.

Image of Eastern comma on elm
The white comma mark on the outer wing of the Eastern comma butterfly explains her name. A related butterfly, the question mark, displays a similar marking but with a dot to complete her punctuation symbol.

But no matter; it must mean I’m not ready yet. I will keep trying, stopping and waiting to see what these butterflies have to teach me. If I’m lucky enough, I may even feel a little tickle on my knee again one day. I just hope I’m still ditching my phone long enough to enjoy the experience.

Easterncomma2
In late summer last year, this Eastern comma wasn’t nearly as bothered by my presence while I watched him puddle in the driveway. Though the species likes to inhabit woodlands, they are frequent visitors to yards that include their host plants (elms and nettles for Eastern commas and willows, elms, hackberries and birch for mourning cloaks).

Image of Eastern comma profile[Photos by Nancy Lawson]

 

 

9 thoughts on “The Butterflies Awaken”

  1. Wonderful photos Nancy! You clearly have more patience than I do. I observed my first MC last week in Mass. but it was doing what they do best and I just couldn’t get the right shot.

  2. Lovely post, Nancy! I find that almost any creature—be it birds or butterflies or reptiles—tolerate our presence best when we move like molasses or play statue. My favorite butterfly experience was when my husband and I were hiking in the mountains and as we stopped to take photos, a green comma decided that the salty sweat on his leg was the best thing ever.

    1. Thanks, Eileen! Wow, that must have been beautiful (and tickly!). I just looked up the green comma – how pretty they are. Their wing edges look like little emeralds.

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