Royal catchfly and Ruby-throated Hummingbird seen 07/11/24 + 07/12/24.
I've got a better head for birds than plants, but I went into the prairie with the idea that I should attempt to document all the different flowers I could. This time of year, prairies are overflowing with blossoms. The list I ended up with contains 38 different species (many of which I'll probably forget by winter.)
Of all of those thriving, abundant forbs, there was only one that was red. It was very scarce, with numbers in the low tens. If not for its color, the paltry sum of them would have been invisible in the rolling waves of wild bergamot, hidden in the shadows behind the stands of compass plant. Cardinal flower, I mistakenly called it, was a rare sight to my eyes and a special one. Despite its severe color, the flower's form was dainty and its presence unobtrusive. As much as I loved and needed to see every flower present there that day, this one inevitably left an impression.
Later, I began scouring niche databases of native wildflowers. Somewhere down the line of Latin names, I happened upon Silene regia, royal catchfly. This was my humble, crimson friend nestled contently among the bergamot and, unlike cardinal flower, I was yet unfamiliar with its name. Royal catchfly is a threatened wildflower, I discovered, a fact which was bleakly punctuated by a series of shrinking range maps. It's inevitable to think of the airport just a few miles up the road: its masters partially destroyed one of the last undisturbed prairies in the state only last year. Such was the cost for the convenience of a slightly shorter access road and another fracture in the range maps.
As I spruce up its portraits and again when I visit the prairie the following day, I find myself more endeared to Silene regia. Though not unique to it alone, I admire its hardiness and resilience despite profound threats to its existence, its sense of self among its overwhelmingly abundant peers. Kinship with things in nature is far from surprising for me, but regardless of this there's an unmistakable peace about seeing something in the wild that's survived tremendous odds. It's a peace perpetually on at least one precipice and far from lasting comfort, but peace found in precious respite is peace all the same.
