Review: Peterson Field Guide to Birds of North America

Birds may not be as endangered by wind power quite as much as previously thought, reports a recent study in the Journal of Applied Ecology.

The bright, white object ranchers discovered in a field in southeastern Colorado last July fell from the sky and may be the only one of its kind.

It is neither a meteorite nor an extraterrestrial, although it has attracted attention on par with these unearthly items, but a bird, one partially albino golden eagle. By the time the raptor reached Diana Miller, who directs the Nature and Raptor Center of Pueblo, in Pueblo, Colo., it was near death.

If I owned a power company in the Northeast, I might consider buying a few farm animals to turn their manure into energy. Or maybe I would plant some trees. Either one of these acts would qualify as a carbon offset under the Regional Greenhouse Gas Initiative (RGGI), the first mandatory carbon cap-and-trade system in the U.S.

Under this system, the power companies in the 10 participating states will be required, beginning in 2009, to cap their greenhouse gas emissions and buy credits for any excess emissions.

I probably should explain. The word "sere," rarely used these days, means dried up and withered. Which perfectly describes old fields and meadows in the Hudson Valley as October nears. Except for lingering goldenrod stands and a spectacular display of assorted asters, the showy wildflowers of summer--the daisies, Susans, Queen Anne's lace, bergamot and thistles among others--have all gone to seed, their foliage now shriveled and brown. Milkweed pods are fat and about to burst.

A few days ago I spotted a vigorous stand of wild sunflowers along the streambed up the road, but when I drove by yesterday they were gone. Instead, there were piles of black dirt on the bank. The tubers of a native plant with a truly peculiar name--Jerusalem artichoke--had been dug up by a wild foods enthusiast, and I wouldn't be surprised to find them being sold as "sunchokes" at the village farm market this weekend along with natural meats and breads.

By Hugh Rose

As it often does, the weather here in Seattle this year seemed to turn overnight. From 80 and sunny one day to downpours the next, fall has officially begun in the Northwest.  And just like they always do, Seattlites have donned their rain coats and hats without complaint-- almost as if by instinct -- and switched from iced to hot coffee drinks while opting for sneakers rather than sandals for the morning commute on bicycle, slowly making the transition into the colder months. In the same way many Arctic birds, having bred and raised their young in the constant daylight summer of the north, are gearing up to fly south for the winter.

In nature, loud colors aren’t usually an afterthought. Mate with me, says many a strutting bird, vibrant plumage on full show. Don’t eat me, shouts the poisonous plant. Yet, for a long time, no one considered that the most noticeable of color displays—the slow, then sudden, wave of warm shades that sweeps through our forests each year—might have its own hidden meaning.

Recently, ABC World News with Charles Gibson reported on studies that link climate change to worsening late-summer allergy seasons. Ragweed plants, scientists assert, are growing larger and producing more--and more potent--pollen because of global warming and increasing carbon dioxide levels in the atmosphere. Since a single ragweed stem generates hundreds of millions of pollen grains that can travel up to 400 miles on the September breeze, that's a grim prospect for the 50 million Americans who already suffer from ragweed allergies.

In New York, it's officially fall. There's a nip in the air, the skies are a crisp blue, and everyone's sleeping better and smiling more, now that those humid, asphalt-scented dog days of summer are over (we hope).

When I was in college and the air got like this, heralding changing leaves and cool afternoons of pickup football in the park, my friends and I would round up a gaggle of girls and head up to Poverty Lane Orchards in Lebanon, N.H., to pick what always ended up being way too many apples; they got made into way too many pies. We always ended those outings feeling uncomfortably stuffed--usually even before the pies, cakes, cookies and muffins came out of the oven. As a tribute to those fond memories, here are a few offerings of green ways to celebrate fall this weekend.