Heralds of Spring

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In most places the aptly named mourning cloak butterfly holds the honor of being the first of its kind to appear in spring. It overwinters as an adult and appears, dark-winged and somber as winter itself, as early as March, even in northern states. The return of truly warm weather, however, is heralded more jubilantly a few weeks later by the sky-blue flutterings of dainty, delicately spotted spring azures, the first butterflies of the season to emerge, transformed, from a long winter’s pupal sleep inside hard-shelled chrysalises.

Spring azures are the most common members of a large family known generally as blues. The spring azure itself, it turns out, may be its own little clan — entomologists think the “species,” which varies considerably in such details as wing-scale configurations and color intensities, will ultimately prove to be several similar but biologically distinct species.

Be that as it may, for most it’s enough to know that these delightful little butterflies are among the season’s first “flying flowers,” adding color to the landscape well before most actual wildflowers are in bloom. Look for spring azures flitting about milkweed, wild carrot, clover and dogwood, or gathering by the dozens to sip at mud puddles. Consider, as you watch, the insects’ remarkable lives: Last year, as tiny leaf-eating larvae, they were tended to by ants for the sweet honeydew the larvae produced. Then, for months of suspended animation, they survived winter’s icy blasts.

Now, given wings and warm sun at last, the butterflies will mate and die within a week or so, their adult lives nearly as fleeting as spring’s showers — and to winter-weary humans, every bit as refreshing.

FINAL FROSTS

The notion that every beginning commences with an ending certainly holds true for spring. For gardeners, the last frost is the very definition of the growing season’s start. Every early planting is a calculated gamble — will the dreaded “final frost” come late this year, sending seedlings to an icy premature demise? Fickle weather makes the gamble all the more a roll of dice. Cold weather alone is not necessarily the enemy — nor, for that matter, is frost itself.

Meteorologically speaking, “black” or “killing” frost — the sort that destroys plant tissues and dashes dreams of early harvests — isn’t frost at all, but a freeze. The moisture in plants freezes, expands and bursts cell walls. For this to happen, conditions must be just right (or, from a human perspective, exactly wrong): clear skies, no wind, low humidity, temperatures near or below freezing. On such nights, do what you can to protect your seedlings, and hope temperatures don’t drop more than a few degrees below the 32 mark.

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