Searching for spring

Draba verna

"He who hopes for spring with upturned eye
never sees so small a thing as Draba.
He who despairs of spring with downcast eye
steps on it, unknowing.
He who searches for spring with his knees in the mud
finds it, in abundance."

— Aldo Leopold

For much of the world, the arrival of spring is a showy occasion.
Like the young girls in brightly-colored, petticoated dresses, we expect the celebration of the season to wake us from winter with a visible alarm. While the temperatures dance back and forth across the freezing line and imperceptible changes slowly unfurl, we struggle to nail spring to the calendar, define it by the things we can see.

Crocus

Glory-of-the-Snow

We mark it boldly, watching for blooms from tulips and daffodils, as if with loud proclamation we might tether it a bit more securely.

But nature’s spring is far more subtle.
Her change is quiet--hidden beneath the tangle of faded stems on a barren field, softly peeking past layers of leaves on the treed hillside of a southern slope.
By the time we realize it’s here, a good portion of spring is already gone.

American Columbo
first leaves of spring

Last weekend I walked with Jim McCormac and the Midwest Native Plant Society in search of those earliest and seldom seen, quietly productive, first-bloomers of spring--the understated, perhaps under-appreciated little mustards. In Adams County, rich in botanical diversity because of its unique combination of geography and geology, we would find them. And, as is often the case, the least spectacular place (especially if you’re driving past at 55 mph) held the greatest botanical find.

Earthstar puffball

Stepping carefully from our vehicles, we fanned out into a small, local cemetery, stooping low, eyes combing the ground in search of our conquest, the tiny Little Whitlow-grass, Draba brachycarpa.
This neat little mustard stands barely an inch high and can easily be lost in the taller trimmed grass surrounding the grave sites. Happy to settle in to the continually disturbed sandy soil in this one of just a few known deposits along the Ohio River, dozens of these small, rare mustard plants jockey for space, while prickly pear cactus and earthstars delight in the southernmost Ohio sand.
The hardest part is finding the first one.

Draba brachycarpa,
photo courtesy Tricia West

“Is this it?”
A small plant is gently isolated, swept clean of broken stems and weathered leaves covering it, basal leaves examined, stem and flower head scrutinized.
“YES!”
And the group drops to their knees, each chin on the ground, as only a mustard can be appreciated.

Draba brachycarpa, in bloom
photo courtesy Tricia West

in fruit

Soon, the hidden treasure is spotted all around, some still in their delicate white flower, most already in fruit—stubby, purple pods (brachycarpa=short pod) that can barely be seen unless you’re nose-to-nose with the little Draba.
At first glance, it might seem we're still waiting for spring.
Look closely, stoop low.
If you're a little mustard, spring has already happened.

Draba brachycarpa, Little Whitlow-grass
in fruit

The genus Draba accounts for 365 species in the mustard family (Cruciferae or Brassicaceae) worldwide, characterized by a 4-part flower whose petals stand at right angles to each other, resembling a cross. Another important diagnostic feature of those in the mustard family is the fruit, a silique, an often long, (except when it’s short!) pod-like form, filled with seeds which easily tumble forth when dry.

Draba verna, Early Whitlow-grass is growing in large patches on my lawn.
Each of the 4 petals is deeply divided, giving the appearance of 8.