Morning Has Broken
- Lana Dion
- Jul 3, 2024
- 8 min read
Awoken by a bad dream, I went to the kitchen to refill my water glass and heard green tree frogs calling in the backyard, giving me a smile. When I looked out a back window I saw—just barely in the ever-so-slightly lightening dark—a gulf coast toad hopping around. Only about four hours earlier, while topping off my water before sleep, I had heard at least one gulf coast toad "singing," but I guess they had finished.
Photo, left: green tree frog, 9/27/23. Photo, right by Paul Dion: gulf coast toad, 6/26/24.
Eager for an expected package today, I checked the tracking and saw that apparently it had been delivered at some point during the night. When I stepped outside it was almost like being wrapped in a warm hug; 82 degrees with a slight breeze and no sun is definitely tolerable. What I couldn't hear from inside was that birds were already chirping and singing, an American Robin and Northern Cardinal standing out above the steady background chorus of crickets. I took a few steps down our front walk then just stood to soak it in.
There's something special about the time of dawn, like a sweet secret shared between bosom friends (shoutout to Anne of Green Gables).
I watched another gulf coast toad—or perhaps the same one—hop along the path toward my neighbor's front door then veer off into the plants growing along the home's foundation; perhaps it will hide from the coming sun and heat by burrowing into the soil there. Noticing a flash of moon through the leaves of my neighbor's live oak tree, I bent over until I could see it framed within a space amongst the branches—just a waning sliver at this point in the cycle, but reflecting beautifully!
It was still too dark to see much detail, but light enough to see the white shape of a little crab spider perched on a petal of a prairie coneflower bloom I had lifted up from the pocket prairie for a closer look. I gently eased it back down so as not to further disturb the tiny sentry. Even in the dim light I could tell the plants were dry. After a wonderfully rainy spring the summer heat has been brutal—more so because it seems like the excess water lulled plants into a false sense of security, not needing to dig their roots as deep. It even affected us, and we were late in realizing we needed to water. Thankfully, native flowers are pretty hardy so there are still some blooms and the native grasses lend their elegant structure year-round.
Photos: little bluestem (Schizachyrium scoparium) and Texas cupgrass (Eriochloa sericea), 7/3/24.
Something zoomed overhead and I wondered if it was a cicada killer wasp—I saw one out back just the other day. Across the street someone briskly made their way down the block along with their three small dogs; rather than the early bird catching the worm, this time of year it's that the early bird doesn't catch heat stroke.
A few American Crows shot out varied calls as they passed, sparking me to wonder if they might be going after another American Robin nest as they had done to the one in my neighbor's backyard a couple months ago, or if they were off to some other shenanigans. I checked the moon again, noticing the pale purple backdrop as the sun continued its approach to the horizon behind, which was only a soft yellow for now, while directly above the sky had taken on a bit of dull blue. As more details were revealed, a couple of cicadas haltingly warm up their engines. A Blue Jay called out repeatedly and I wondered if they were irritated with me for being too close to "their" pond, but then I remembered that Blue Jays don't usually—if ever—visit the pond this early in the day. A Mourning Dove continued his soothing cry above the crickets.
By now I'd already slapped a few mosquitoes snacking on me—maybe they're drawn out by the light. I noticed the horizon was more white than the pale yellow and purple of a few minutes previous. I could still hear birds singing, but they seemed to have moved on to more distant trees. Checking the moon again, I had to bend even further and could only just barely still see it between the branches as it rose—or really, as we here on Earth advance in our revolution.
Soaking in and clinging to one last moment, I tied it off and hoped it keeps as I reluctantly returned inside.
And wrote.
. . .
About an hour later the sun had risen, as had I—again—to top off my water—again, this time opening the front blinds to the day. Insects of the light had swapped with those of the night; tucked away were the crickets and moths, out and about were the dragonflies, bees, and wasps. Surveying the garden now adorned by golden rays, I noticed a tabby sitting right in front of a parked vehicle. Believing them to be the sweet girl who's been coming around and who we're trying to befriend so we can help her, I hurried out—calmly, so as not to frighten her.
Their coloring seemed perhaps a bit off, but I thought it might have been due to low light in the shade. However, the cat simply stared at me as I clucked and gently called—then suddenly "my" sweet girl popped out of our pocket prairie and walked toward me, eking out the cutest little squeaks of a meow. She's still very skittish but did allow and seem to enjoy a brief petting, then moved back a few feet to plop and roll. I told her to wait—which I'm sure she understood—while I hurried inside to retrieve a treat. Returning to the door, I was surprised to see that she was just about booping the storm door with her nose, she was sitting so close!
She still seemed hungry after the small treat so I went back in for some canned tuna, but now my young tuxedo, Bean, was wise to something fishy going on. He followed the plate meowing all the way to the door, but thankfully he's not a door-dasher and instead just watched. This time I put the plate near my lounger and took a seat while the outside kitty ate.
Unfortunately, the squirrel who I believe lives in my neighbor's oak tree—and who had previously been expressing her distaste for the cat's presence—was now eagerly focused on me. You see, my husband has made a sort of friendship with this squirrel and he regularly offers her various nuts. Somehow she seems to think that I, too, carry nuts—though I do not. As she eased closer and closer with her adorably hopeful little eyes intently trained toward me I tried to warn her away, but for some reason she didn't seem to understand me. Perhaps the possibility of nuts was too much for our language barrier to overcome (she never believes me when I tell her I don't have nuts—or she knows that if she keeps asking then I'll summon the Bringer of Nuts).
Next thing I knew, kitty had spotted squirrel, zoom thrusters engaged, and they both took off across the yard! Thankfully, squirrels are ridiculously fast and she made it back up her tree and—also thankfully—kitty didn't follow. I'm sure she was thinkin' about it, though. I tried to distract her and call her away, but she kept staring up the tree. Finally—finally—she sauntered a few feet away, plopped down on the lawn, and began cleaning her face and paws. I tried to draw her back into my yard with the remaining bits of tuna, but she seemed to have had her fill. Miss Squirrel continued her much-louder-than-before protests—rightly so!—and eventually kitty sauntered back through my garden and across the street to lounge in another lawn.
I've been increasingly concerned about her going after other critters and this was too close a call for comfort. At first she only visited to drink from the pond at night, then it became early morning and early evening, too. Now she's taken to lounging up against the sideoats grama grass in our pocket prairie, close to the pond. Even if we were able to ensure she was well-fed, it wouldn't be enough to keep her from chasing other critters, as domestic cats continue to hunt even when they're not hungry. Free-ranging and feral cats are a major danger to native species (like birds) who are already under stress due to habitat loss—and here I am trying to attract and support native species by growing habitat. Plus, outdoor cats have much shorter lives with much more danger and spreading of parasites and diseases. Thus, it appears we need to ramp up our befriending efforts and prepare a quarantine space in the house.
Now that it was light enough for photos I took a few quick shots with my phone, also finding another, larger, darker crab spider—and then promptly losing them again when they scurried and hid under a leaf before I could take a pic. The Bringer of Nuts emerged and left some almonds on the porchside stump for Miss Squirrel. The heat was ramping up so it was time to head back inside to rehydrate.
And write.
Photos: prairie coneflower (Ratibida columnifera), plains coreopsis (Coreopsis tinctoria), and black-eyed susan (Rudbeckia hirta), 7/3/24.
Photos: black-eyed susan (Rudbeckia hirta), various plants in the pocket prairie, pickerelweed (Pontederia cordata) in the pond, 7/3/24.
Selected References & Resources
Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission
"Indoor cats live longer, stay healthier, and do not kill native animals."
"Domestic cats are not a part of Florida’s natural ecosystem. A single individual free-ranging cat may kill 100 or more birds and mammals per year. Scientists in Wisconsin estimate that cats kill at least 7.8 million birds per year in that state alone. Even cats with bells on their collars kill or injure birds and small mammals."
"Cats compete with native wildlife and can spread disease. Outdoor cats have been identified as the primary host in the transmission of toxoplasmosis to wildlife, a disease which has caused death in manatees and other mammals."
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Free-ranging and Feral Cats
"The threat which free-ranging cats pose to native wildlife cannot be understated. Proponents of free-ranging cats on the landscape argue that predation by such cats on wildlife is negligible when compared to other sources of mortality, however many studies have shown that cats are a major, if not the greatest, source of mortality to native birds, mammals, reptiles, and amphibians (Lepczyk et al. 2003; Beckerman et al. 2007; Van Heezik 2010; Lloyd et al. 2013; Loss et al. 2013 and 2015; Woinarski et al. 2017 and 2018; Li et al. 2021). While loss of habitat is the primary cause of species extinctions, cats have contributed to the extinction of at least 63 species in the wild around the world (Doherty et al. 2016). In addition to direct predation, cats impact species survival through nest failure, injury, and behavioral changes, such as reduced feeding opportunities due to harassment (Beckerman et al. 2007; Bonnington et al. 2013)."
"An analysis of data from 82 rehabilitation centers across North America found that cats were responsible for 52% of bird intake, and 78% of those cat-related admissions died or had to be euthanized (Loyd et al. 2017)."
"[R]esearch indicates cats are not effective in controlling invasive species populations (Parsons et al. 2018)."
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Feral and Stray Cats: An Important Difference
