Evening rain lily (Cooperia drummondii, also known as Zephyranthes chlorosolen)
I’ve learned a number of lessons since beginning to roam the countryside in search of delights to photograph. Most have been of the practical sort: double-check the camera for the presence of its memory card before leaving home; always carry Benadryl; keep boots and extra water in the car; don’t put car keys in a shallow pocket.
Other lessons, less obvious, have been learned slowly, over time. After five years or so, I’ve yet to experience a single exception to a lesson best expressed as an aphorism: “There’s always something to see.”
Last Saturday, my unexpected ‘something’ turned out to be five rain lilies. The flowers often emerge after rains, but despite a wet spring and early summer, I hadn’t yet seen one this year.
I certainly didn’t expect to find them clustered along a dry, dusty roadside during our typically hot and dry July, but there they were: one fading to pink, three somewhat nibbled and gnawed, and the one shown above still fresh, as nearly perfect as a flower could be.
I confess I sometimes talk to the flowers, and I talked to this one. “Look at you,” I said. “It’s barely past seven o’clock, and you’ve already given me my ‘something’ for the day.”
Comments always are welcome.
Evening rain-lily (Cooperia drummondii, or Zephyranthes chlorosolen) has been moved from the Lily family (Liliaceae) to the Amaryllis family (Amaryllidaceae). The specific epithet ‘drummondii’ recognizes Thomas Drummond, an 18th century Scottish naturalist.
Yellow rain lily (Zephyranthes pulchella)
After a friend and I discovered great swaths of bluebells and eryngo at the Brazoria Wildlife Refuge, I decided to return for a day of solo exploration, and July 4 was my opportunity.
Stopping for a quick survey of the planted gardens, I noticed what I assumed to be a late Texas dandelion blooming in the mowed grass edging the parking lot. A second look revealed something entirely different. A yellow rain lily was glowing in the sunlight, and at the very moment I recognized it, my day was complete.
I first encountered one of these lilies at a local nature center, and spent a good bit of time trying to identify it. Later, I found patches of them at Armand Bayou, and in the process of writing about them, satisfied myself that I’d found Zephyranthes smallii.
Still, my original identification had been provisional, so I emailed a pair of photos to Thomas Adams, botanist at the Mid-Coast National Wildlife Complex, which includes the Brazoria refuge. After noting that it’s sometimes difficult to distinguish between Zephyranthes citrina and Zephyranthes pulchella, he added that, given the equal size of the stamens and the short perianth tube, it seemed likely that I had stumbled across Zephyranthes pulchella: a Texas native that historically has been found close to Brazoria County.
Other surprises would come that day, but nothing could equal this bit of explosive color — an example of floral fireworks that seemed made for a day of celebration.
Comments always are welcome.