Burns Nicht

In honor of the Scottish poet Robert Burns (1759 - 1796) and the annual celebration of his birthday, I read some poems in the morning and did some thistling in the afternoon. Despite a number of wet, heavy snowfalls and branch-breaking ice storms, a few thistles still stand or at least lean slightly above the snow. I found one large Bull Thistle and a number of native Field Thistles during a short walk at the St Olaf Natural Lands. I gathered two flower heads (one from each species) and brought them home to photograph the seeds and the spines. While the seeds were somewhat similar, the spines on the bracts are quite distinct between the two species. There's an elegance and valor to these winter wildflowers; as fond as I am of the purple blooms in summer, I'm just as pleased at the sight of thistles in winter.

Up in the Morning Early
Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,
The drift is driving sairly;
Sae loud and shrill’s I hear the blast,
I’m sure it’s winter fairly.

Up in the morning’s no for me,
Up in the morning early;
When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ snaw,
I’m sure its winter fairly.

The birds sit chittering in the thorn,
A’ day they fare but sparely;
And lang’s the night frae e’en to morn,
I’m sure it’s winter fairly.

Up in the morning’s no for me,
Up in the morning early;
When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ snaw,
I’m sure its winter fairly.

– Robert Burns