Bunchberry dogwood in peak bloom
June 24, 2026
In the shaded understory of Bainbridge Island's second-growth forest, the ground is white right now. Not snow, not frost, but bunchberry dogwood in full bloom, its flowers open across the forest floor in dense, low mats that catch whatever light filters through the vine maple and redosier dogwood overhead. The blooms are small, a cluster of tiny true flowers surrounded by four white bracts that do the visual work of attracting visitors. Individually they are modest. Collectively, spread across meters of damp ground, they are a significant food source at a moment when the forest needs one.Bunchberry dogwood is a ground-level plant, rarely more than twenty centimeters tall, and it spreads by rhizome into loose colonies across moist, shaded forest floor. What it lacks in height it makes up in density. Each cluster of white bracts frames a tight center of small flowers, and those flowers produce nectar and pollen over a bloom period that coincides almost exactly with the longest days of early summer. The timing matters. This is when aquatic insects are emerging from nearby streams and wetlands, when the forest canopy is thick with flying invertebrates, and when every nesting bird on the island is making repeated foraging trips to feed protein to nestlings. The bunchberry adds to that supply. Not dramatically, but consistently, and at the right moment.The flowers attract small bees, flies, beetles, and wasps, including the invasive European paper wasp, which forages widely across the understory this time of year. These visitors collect pollen and nectar, and in doing so transfer pollen between plants. The pollination mechanism in bunchberry is worth knowing: the flowers are spring-loaded. When a visiting insect contacts the stamens, the anthers release pollen explosively, coating the visitor in under half a millisecond. It is one of the fastest movements in the plant world. The insect moves on, dusted with pollen, and the plant's reproduction moves with it. Look closely at the center of an open flower cluster and you may see the spent anthers, already triggered, curled outward.What the insects carry away, the birds collect indirectly. Chestnut-backed chickadees are nesting now, and they forage heavily on the small insects that gather at flowering plants like this one. Spotted towhees work the leaf litter nearby, turning over debris in search of invertebrates. Bewick's wrens move through shrubby tangles at the forest edge, taking flies and small beetles. These birds are not visiting the bunchberry directly; they are harvesting the insects that the flowers have concentrated. The plant functions as a gathering point, and the gathering feeds the next layer up. Later in the season, bunchberry will produce tight clusters of bright red fruit, and those same birds will return for a different reason entirely. Right now, though, it is the flowers doing the work.The forest floor here holds other plants in bloom or coming into bloom. Common snowberry is opening its small pink flowers along the edges of the understory, and ocean spray is building toward its own peak further out in the drier, more open areas. But bunchberry is the one flowering at ground level, in the shade, where the soil stays cool and damp. That niche is specific. The insects that work low and slow through shaded forest find it reliably. If you are standing near a patch right now, crouch down and watch the flower clusters for thirty seconds. The visitors are small and quick, but they are there.
Ochre sea stars hunting at the tide line
June 6, 2026
The rocky shore at Winslow lies exposed under the long light of early summer. Water drains from the tide pools in sheets, leaving dark stones slick and glistening. The air carries the salt tang of kelp and the sharp mineral scent of wet granite. If you are walking these shores, notice how the retreating water reveals a landscape that was hidden just hours before.Among the barnacle-crusted rocks, orange and purple forms grip the stone with hundreds of tube feet. These are ochre sea stars, and they are hunting. Each star moves with deliberate slowness, flowing over the uneven surface of the intertidal zone. Their arms probe crevices and gaps where California mussels cluster in dark blue masses. The mussels pull tight against their shells when touched, but the sea stars are patient. They position themselves over a mussel bed and begin to pull. Two arms anchor against the rock while the others wrap around a single mussel, applying steady pressure that can last for hours. The mussel's muscles tire before the sea star's grip weakens. When the shell opens just a crack, the sea star pushes its stomach through its mouth and into the gap, digesting the mussel from the inside.This hunt shapes everything else on these rocks. Without ochre sea stars, mussels would carpet every available surface, crowding out barnacles, anemones, and the small algae that feed dozens of other species. The sea stars create space by removing the most successful competitor, allowing aggregating anemones to spread their tentacle crowns in the cleared patches, and giving small crabs room to scuttle between the remaining mussel clusters. Each hunting sea star maintains a small clearing in what would otherwise become a mussel monoculture. The pattern repeats across every stretch of rocky shore from Alaska to California. Remove the sea stars, and the diversity collapses within months. Their presence keeps the intertidal zone open and complex, a patchwork of different organisms rather than a single dominant species. The relationship extends beyond mussels. Sea stars also hunt barnacles, limpets, and chitons, but mussels remain their preferred prey when available. During these long summer days, with extended low tides exposing the hunting grounds for hours, the sea stars can reach prey that remains submerged during winter's brief low tides. The timing matters. Early summer brings the year's most accessible feeding, when the combination of daylight and tide cycles allows the deepest reaches of the mussel beds to emerge into air.The water returns gradually, first as a thin film spreading between the rocks, then deeper until it covers the hunting grounds again. You can hear it before you see it, a quiet rushing that grows louder as the tide fills the channels between boulders. The sea stars continue their slow work even as the water rises around them, their orange arms still wrapped around blue shells, still applying that patient, inexorable pressure that keeps these shores diverse and open.
Rufous hummingbirds and late spring flowers
May 21, 2026
The serviceberry bushes at Discovery Park hold their white flowers open to the morning light. Five petals each, clustered along branches that two weeks ago were bare. The Saskatoon serviceberry blooms now in late spring, and the timing matters more than you might expect. Listen for the high whir of wings, a sound like a tiny motor running at impossible speed.The rufous hummingbird arrives in the Pacific Northwest when the flowers do. This threatened migrant, no bigger than your thumb, travels two thousand miles from Mexico to reach these coastal meadows and forest edges. The male rufous hummingbird burns orange across his throat and back, a color that catches the light as he hovers at each serviceberry cluster. His heart beats twelve hundred times per minute. His wings stroke eighty times per second. He weighs less than a nickel, but his flight muscles make up thirty percent of his body mass. Every flower he visits must pay for this extravagant machinery of flight.The serviceberry provides what he needs. Each small white bloom holds a drop of nectar, sugar water concentrated enough to fuel those racing wing beats. The rufous hummingbird feeds every ten to fifteen minutes throughout the day, visiting up to two thousand flowers between dawn and dusk. He cannot store much energy in his tiny frame, so the flowers must be there when he needs them. The serviceberry obliges, opening its blooms just as the hummingbirds push north through the region. This is not coincidence but consequence, the result of countless springs when the birds that arrived too early or too late found fewer flowers, less fuel, smaller chances of reaching the northern breeding grounds. The lilac bushes nearby are finishing their purple sprays, their peak nectar flow already past. But the serviceberry holds steady through late spring, its white clusters lasting long enough to see the hummingbirds through their journey. The rufous hummingbird gives something back to the serviceberry as he feeds. Pollen grains stick to the feathers around his bill and throat as he probes each flower. When he moves to the next bloom, some of those grains brush off, fertilizing the plant that feeds him. The serviceberry depends on this exchange. Its flowers need cross-pollination to set the dark berries that will ripen in summer, feeding thrushes and waxwings and bears. Without the hummingbirds and other pollinators, the serviceberry would bloom but not fruit, spending its energy on flowers that lead nowhere.The relationship runs deeper than a simple trade of nectar for pollination. The rufous hummingbird's spring migration is timed to follow the wave of flowering that moves north with the warming season. Desert wildflowers in Arizona bloom first, then mountain meadows in Oregon, then coastal shrubs here in Washington. The hummingbird rides this floral wave northward, each stop providing the fuel for the next leg of the journey. Break the chain anywhere and the whole migration falters. Climate change pushes some flowers to bloom earlier, before the hummingbirds arrive. Development removes others entirely. The rufous hummingbird population has declined by sixty percent in the last fifty years, partly because the flowers it depends on no longer bloom when and where they should.
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