About a year ago, a friend told me (Michael) about the Japanese Microseasons. Instead of our Gregorian calendar, which divides one earthly orbit of the sun into 12 months or 52 weeks, microseasons break the year into 72 brief, nature-based segments, such as—
Peonies bloom (April 30–May 4) …
Wild geese return (October 8–12) …
Deer shed antlers (December 27–31) …
Poetic, animistic, and suggestive of ritualized noticing? As a penitent ex-tech worker—15 years guiding people ever deeper into their screens, all from a desk in seasonless Silicon Valley, who then discovered birds and promptly blew up his life—I had to learn more.
But reliable info on the calendar’s origins was hard to find online, so I was left to daydream. I pictured enrobed sages moving slowly through foggy valleys and hilltop villages, their forest-bathed attention interrupted only by the sudden CLACK of a shishi-odoshi. They’d pause by burbling streams to consult ancient scrolls, allowing a quiet smile when, just as predicted—
Rotten grass become fireflies (June 11–15).
Such reverence for the rhythms of wild nature certainly feels mythological these days. We, Homo skyscrapius—go-getter primates of steel and glass—live largely divorced from the natural world. Our landscapes and ecosystems are plundered in the name of “development.” Our mental lives are colonized by “advancements” in tech—mostly addictive, phone-shaped unrealities.
Our devotion to growth and stimulation has made a return—to pristine nature, to our truest selves—feel impossible.
And yet.
Since I watch birds, I already follow a kind of alternate, quasi-animistic calendar. An NYC birder, in broad strokes, might read a year like this:
—Strange ducks and geese inhabit city waterways (January) —Common Grackles return (February) —Eastern Phoebes reappear (March) —First-wave migrants arrive; strange waterfowl depart (April) —Northbound migration hits its vibrant peak (May) —Warm, quiet weeks; migrant breeders linger (June to mid-August) —The slow, muted wash of southbound migration (Mid-August to late October) —Strange ducks and geese return (November–December)
Because I knew the birds were still here, and that most New Yorkers no longer saw them, it struck me that the same might be true for flora, insects, fungi, and subtle shifts in weather I’d never learned to notice.
What better way to shake Homo skyscrapius from its zombie-walk into dystopia—myself included—than to shape a calendar of microseasons all our own? Not for some distant pastoral dream. For McGolrick Park, 2024 to 2025. For North Brooklyn.
So, one crisp April morning, just over a year ago, I stepped outside...
The 54 Microseasons of North Brooklyn
And, here it is. The calendar I made by walking McGolrick Park every morning, from April 2024 to April 2025.
These are the real-time, real life signals of where we are in the wheel of the year—right here in New York City.
Bumblebees awaken (Apr 8–14)
Red Admirals reappear (Apr 15–21)
First Baltimore Orioles (Apr 22–28)
Rose-breasted Grosbeaks return (Apr 29–May 5)
Alliums bloom (May 6–12)
Hooded Warbler visits (May 13–19)
Eastern Tiger Swallowtails arrive (May 20–26)
Serviceberries ripen (May 27–Jun 2)
Monarch butterflies arrive (Jun 3–9)
Fireflies emerge (Jun 10–16)
Curling Gooseneck Loosestrifes (Jun 17–23)
Barn Swallows peak (Jun 24–Jul 30)
Purple Coneflowers bloom (Jul 1–7)
Wild Bergamots bloom (Jul 8–14)
Dragonflies peak (Jul 15–21)
American Pokeweeds show (Jul 22–28)
Eastern Cicada-killer Wasps seek burrows (Jul 29–Aug 4)
Cherry laurels ripen (Aug 5–11)
American Redstarts return (Aug 12–18)
Signs of Autumn (Aug 19–25)
Small-leaved Plantain Lilies flower (Aug 26–Sep 1)
First of season Cooper’s Hawk (Sep 2–8)
Winterberry holly fruits redden (Sep 9–15)
Red-bellied Woodpeckers arrive (Sep 16–22)
Ragwort flowers (Sep 23–30)
Fall plumage Blackpoll Warbler (Oct 1–6)
Tufted Titmice return (Oct 7–13)
American Woodcock returns (Oct 14–20)
Ash trees go yellow, red and bare (Oct 21–27)
Redbud, ginkgo, and elm leaves yellow (Oct 28–Nov 3)
Clouds of insects (Nov 4–10)
Goldenrods go to seed (Nov 11–17)
Late Purple Vervain blooms (Nov 18–24)
Leaves of Pin Oak redden (Nov 25–Dec 1)
Scores of flying Canada geese (Dec 2–8)
London planetrees go bare (Dec 9–15)
Common Raven visits (Dec 16–22)
New Yorkers start hibernating in their dens (Dec 23–29)
Falcon courtship begins (Dec 30–Jan 5)
Late flowers enter vegetative state (Jan 6–12)
Freezing southeasterly winds (Jan 13–26)
Gradient skies of blue, lavender, and white (Jan 13–19)
First deep freeze (Jan 20–26)
Fast moving Cirrocumulus clouds (Jan 27–Feb 2)
Young squirrels leave nests (Feb 3–9)
Grass sprouts (Feb 10–16)
Daffodil shoots appear (Feb 17–23)
First False Spring (Feb 24–Mar 2)
Common Grackles arrive (Mar 3–9)
Northern Cardinals sing (Mar 10–16)
Tree buds swell (Mar 17–23)
Eastern Phoebe arrives (Mar 24–30)
Forsythia flowers (Mar 31–Apr 7)
Methodology
Here’s how I created the calendar.
Go Outside — Every morning around 7 a.m., I head to McGolrick Park.
Notice + iNaturalist — I walk a ~15-minute loop and let my attention drift toward signs of emergence. By emergence, I mean anything that wasn’t there before—as far as my memory, instinct, and notes can tell.
I snap photos of plants and insects—almost all of whom are strangers to me—and upload them to iNaturalist, an app that uses computer vision to suggest species names. I jot down anything else that feels like a microseasonal clue, including:
Birds — Since I bird the park daily, this part is easy. I can usually tell when migrants first arrive, when fledglings appear, or when something unusual (like a large pre-migratory gathering) is happening.
Plants — I watch for blooms, color shifts, new growth, or any visual signals that feel like markers in a plant’s life cycle.
Insects — If it’s large or still enough to photograph, I snap a pic.
Weather — Eastern meteorology, especially in the Anthropocene age, seems unstable. But since the Japanese calendar includes stirring entries like Distant thunder (March 31–April 4), I try to log weather events that are possibly indicative of earthly change.
Other — The Japanese calendar also includes deer. So I make space for squirrels—and, occasionally, humans.
Logging — Back home, I spend two minutes typing dates, iNaturalist specimen names, and notes into a spreadsheet.
Validation — I give each entry a quick Google to check if what I observed indeed correlates with life cycle change. I’m also looking for surprising anecdotes—both for my own education and for the joy of sharing them in this newsletter.
A few examples:
November 19, 2024 — I see shapely brown husks atop a Joe-Pye Weed that bloomed back in July. A little research confirms this is the plant’s seeding stage.
Juen 2, 2025 — A Southern Yellowjacket I photograph matches online descriptions of a queen. Turns out early June is when they parasitize other yellowjacket nests. Gross. Fascinating.
Naming the Microseasons — At the year’s end, I reviewed each entry and gave every block of time a name. (The blocks just aligned with this newsletter’s publishing schedule.) For each one, I tried to choose the most emotionally and visually salient emergence—ideally, something you all could notice too, with minimal effort.
Some Takeaways
My most lasting takeaway wouldn’t impress your average gardener: I could not believe how brief most flowers’ blooms are—and how they come in waves, as if patiently waiting for their turn to shine.
Same with insects, especially butterflies. I learn they typically live for mere days, like Mother Earth’s daydreams—fragile, fleeting, heartbreakingly quick.
I had never noticed how insectless winter is. The deadness is so total that when a bumblebee appeared in April, I stood there grinning like a fool, and felt something unlock in my chest. Now, when clouds of flies descend on me while I birdwatch, instead of annoyance, I try to remember the long, fallow season when such life was nowhere to be found.
Repeatability
This project began just over a year ago—and I didn’t stop at the one-year mark. Which means I’ve had a chance to test my work.
Alliums again bursted, bulbous purple, second week of May. Right on time. Alliums bloom (May 6–12) ✅
A first Rose-breasted Grosbeak showed up, this April, on the same exact day as last year! Rose-breasted Grosbeak returns (APR 29 - MAY 5) ✅
Serviceberries, as of this writing, are red and juicy. Serviceberries ripen (MAY 27 - JUN 2) ✅
So, the calendar seems to work.
When it hasn’t—I’m still waiting for Eastern Tiger Swallowtails to show up, or Blackpoll Warblers arrived way early—I see proof that this calendar, like its maker and the earth he honors, is alive. Imperfect. Mutable.
Change Over Time
You might wonder: what did all this noticing do to me?
Honestly? I’m still addicted to my phone. I’m still impatient. I still eat too much. I’m still grumpiest with my wife. I don’t feel wiser. Not better. Not repaired.
Maybe you expected different. I get it. We all love a redemptive story arc. Plato laid it out: in uplifting comedies, the hero is transformed. In depressing tragedies, they’re not.
It was tempting to cast this project in the comedic shape. To narrate a “then” and “now.”
But no. If I’ve felt anything, it’s a dull, warm appreciation for commitment. A pleasurable, yet inconsistent, hum. The kind that surfaces when my daughter holds my hand. Or when I laugh hard with my wife. Or, when she was alive, in easy conversation with my grandmother.
These moments are brief. Transitory. Right on the edge of monotony or malaise. Sometimes just past pain—my daughter’s meltdown when I Velcro her shoe too fast. Or that phone calls masked the correct fear that Grammy would soon die.
What I’ve learned is this: Ritual devotion doesn’t change your life. It just is a life.
If that understanding protects me—even just a little—from virtual realities… then I think that’s enough.
Jenny Odell (Of Course)
What if we really could untether our attention from the nonsense, from the unreal—and refold it into moments, into reality, into earth time? What might we discover? What might happen to our minds, our lives, our society?
In Saving Time, Jenny Odell describes watching a single buckeye tree for a full year. It goes dormant in summer—an unusual rhythm that tuned her into the tree’s time.
She calls that tuning-in unfreezing. What history shaped this tree? When did it adapt? Why flower this way, on this schedule?
It turns out the buckeye carries the memory of a climate shift three million years ago—when dry summers killed its contemporaries, and the species survived by shifting its calendar.
Jenny’s directions for unfreezing: “Just pick a point in space—a branch, a yard, a sidewalk square, a webcam—and simply keep watch. A story is being written there.”
It’s classic Jenny. An unexpected and elegant tool for attention. A quietly awe-striking reframe of scale.
I want to risk going a step further.
Toward (Gulp) The Sacred
When I began this project, I had a flickering, half-formed fascination with Shinto—the indigenous Japanese religion that reveres nature, ritual, and kami: the spirits believed to dwell in every river, mountain, and breath.
Shinto has no single god, no book of rules. But it does give us those torii gates: red and strange and beautiful. You pass through them to leave the ordinary world and enter the sacred.
That gesture stayed with me. A gate is just a frame. But step through it with intention, and the world changes.
The other day I stepped into McCarren Park.
Spring had flung herself across everything. Athletes sat in circles, children flitted like finches, weed smoke curled through sunlight like incense.
For a moment, I wasn’t in a city park, but a pre-grid, pre-colonial village—joyful, embodied, communal.
Yet something trembled at the edge of my vision, a note slightly out of tune.
Where is the reverence? Where are the ceremonies of awe?
Not that I longed for pews or pulpits or some great seasonal rite. I’m not calling for a Sun Dance or a sermon. Still: what are our rituals now? What do we worship?
Maybe the runners on the track, swirling like long-form dervishes, or the stoned teens melting into trees, were in trance states of their own. Awe takes many shapes.
But the most obvious objects of devotion were, of course, screens—countless heads bowed, not in prayer, but in captured attention. At best, a modern minyan, shuckling at a virtual altar of the feed. At worst, moths stunned by light—spiraling… overheating…
(I’m not judging. I checked my phone the second I left the park.)
Our rituals are quiet, compulsive, mostly invisible. But they are rituals nonetheless. And we tithe our attention to machines that cannot love us. We’re told this is connection. This is life. But mostly, what we’re left with is absence.
We need a return to the truth we already carry in our bones:
That Earth is sacred and alive. That it awaits communion.
That noticing—slow, patient, devoted noticing—isn’t a hobby. It’s a practice. A personal liturgy. A silent hallelujah.
To what?
To the unifying oneness of life.
Every walk I took. Every bud I watched. Every birdsong I strained to hear. I didn’t do it because it felt good. Or revelatory.
I did it because it was real.
If you’ve ever looked at your life (or phone) and wondered, Is this it? Is this all?—I offer this, not as an answer, but as a portal:
Look wider. Listen harder. Step through the gate.
Because the sacred breathes and blooms.
It’s still here.
It’s you.
***
All Dates and Specimens
APRIL 8 - 14 Bumblebees appear · Northern Flickers laugh · First warblers visit · Siberian Elms: red to green · Flowering trees · First push of Hermit Thrushes · First push of migrating sparrows · Baby squirrels play · Canada Geese fly north APRIL 15 - 21 Butterflies appear • First push of Kinglets • First Yellow-rumped Warblers • First Black-and-white Warblers • First Blue-headed Vireos • Flocks of Laughing Gulls • London planes sprout • Hibernating tattoos reappear APRIL 22 - 28 Honeybees appear • Sparrows swarm flowering Elms • First Baltimore Orioles • First Tyrant Flycatchers • Wrens appear • Flowering trees weep • First mixed flocks of warblers • First vocalizing warblers APRIL 29 - MAY 5 Grosbeaks & Tanagers return • First Spring Blast • Orchard Orioles • Redbuds show green • Chimney Swifts return • Dandelion seed heads MAY 6 - MAY 12 Alliums bloom • Crows battle for territory • Hawthorn trees pop • First American Redstarts, Blackpoll, Chestnut-sided and Blackburnian Warblers • Wood Thrushes sing • Wrens emerge • Northern Waterthrush returns • First Cuckoo • Falling particles fly into mouths and cause nasopharyngeal havoc MAY 13 - MAY 19 Eastern Wood-Pewee arrives • Hooded Warbler visits • First Canada Warbler • Bay-breasted Warblers return • First flyover swallows • Europeans Starlings, House Sparrows and Mourning Doves fledge • MAY 20 - MAY 26 Barberries turn blue • Eastern Tiger Swallowtails arrive • First heatwave • Cape May Warblers visit • Tennessee Warblers visit • Fish Crows linger • Wild Turkeys • Blackpoll Warblers squeak • Lanternflies reappear • Hawthorns shed petals MAY 27 - JUNE 2 Serviceberries ripen • Common Grackles fledge • Mosquitos bite • Cedar Waxwings flock • Mourning Warbler visit • First Oakleaf Hydrangea flowers • Virginia Spiderworts • Red-tailed Hawk returns • Warblers linger • Flycatchers visit JUNE 3 - JUNE 9 Monarch Butterflies arrive • Milkweed blooms • Red Milkweed Beetles mate • Foxglove Beardtongues bloom • Echinacea blooms JUNE 10 - JUNE 16 Fireflies emerge • Orange Day-Lilies peak • Eastern Kingbird • Fish Crows nest • Lingering Ovenbirds JUNE 17 - JUNE 23 Curling Gooseneck Loosestrifes • First Heatwave • Serviceberry exhaustion JUNE 24 - JUNE 30 Butterfly Milkweeds bloom • Barn Swallows feast • Shrubby St. John’s-worts flower • Lightning Bugs peak • Staghorn Sumacs berry JULY 1 - JULY 7 Annual Fleabanes blossom • Purple Coneflowers bloom JULY 8 - JULY 14 Fall Phlox bloom • Mockingbirds defend nests • Wild Bergamots bloom • Collective, work-borne burnout • Fish Crows fledge JULY 15 - JULY 21 Dragonflies peak • Great blue lobelia blooms • Rattlesnake master flowers • Joe-Pye weeds blossom • Sycamore Tussock Moth caterpillars appear JULY 22 - JULY 28 Earth is damp, air is humid • Panicle hydrangeas show • Cutleaf coneflowers bulb • American pokeweeds show • Sweet pepperbush flowers • Inland wood oat spikelets droop JULY 29 - AUG 4 Northern Cardinals visit • Supreme heat • Common evening-primrose flowers • Sweet black-eyed Susans show • Great rains sometimes fall • House Finches return • Nodding onions open • Eastern Cicada-killer Wasps seek burrows AUG 5 - AUG 11 Spiderwebs appear • Giant foxtail setting seeds • Cherry laurels ripen • Liriope buds • Great rains sometimes fall • First fall migrants appear AUG 12 - AUG 18 Lesser burdock flowers · Eastern wood-pewee returns · First Fall Redstarts · Post-bloom forest floors AUG 19 - AUG 25 A sense of Autumn · Heavily plumaged trees thin · First big migration push · First migrating thrush · First Blue-winged Warbler · Lingering monarchs AUG 26 - SEP 1 Crape Myrtles gently weep · Small-leaved Plantain Lilies flower · Liriope berries ovate SEP 2 - SEP 8 First of season Black-throated Green Warbler, Cooper’s Hawk, Olive-sided Flycatcher, Red-eyed Vireo, Rose-breasted Grosbeak, Ruby-throated Hummingbird SEP 9 - SEP 15 Winterberry holly fruits redden · Pants wearers reemerge SEP 16 - SEP 22 Chimney Swifts leave · First plague of Common Grackles · Northern Flickers visit · Garden Dahlias bloom · White Snakeroot flowers · Asters & Goldenrods commune · Naked Ladies appear · First of season Red-bellied Woodpecker, Ruby-crowned Kinglet, Swainson’s Thrush · Canada Geese fly south SEP 23 - SEP 30 Leaves brown and air cools · Ragwort flowers OCT 1 - OCT 6 First of season Blackpoll Warbler, Eastern Phoebe OCT 7 - OCT 13 Tufted Titmice return · White Ashes shed · First of season White-breasted Nuthatch, Dark-eyed Junco, Song Sparrow, Winter Wren, Chipping Sparrow · Sweatshirts reappear · Leaves arrive in foyers OCT 14 - OCT 20American Woodcock returns · Cooper’s Hawk returns · Mixed sparrow flocks · First of season Fox Sparrow · First of season winter jackets, mittens OCT 21 - OCT 27 Ash trees go yellow, red and bare · Acorns fall · Plane trees shed · First of season Purple Finch · Dark-eyed Juncos en masse OCT 28 - NOV 3 Asters persist · Light rains sometimes fall · Last migrating warblers · Ash trees are bare · Maple trees lose leaves · Redbud, ginko and elm leaves yellow · Fall migration ends NOV 4 - NOV 10 Black-capped chickadees visit · Clouds of insects · Collective nausea NOV 11 - NOV 17 Goldenrods go to seed · Crape Myrtle leaves redden · Gingko, Kentucky yellowwoods and Tuliptrees go bare · American Woodcock visits · Black-eyed Susans wilt · Buffleheads return to nearby waterways NOV 18 - NOV 24 Joe-Pye weed goes to seed · Late Purple vervain blooms NOV 25 - DEC 1 Red-orange-yellow-green gradients · Leaves of Pin Oak, Virginia sweetspire and Shrubby St. John’s-wort redden DEC 2 - DEC 8 Winter skies · First flurries · Scores of flying geese · Silver Lindens and Cockspur Hawthorns go bare DEC 9 - DEC 15 London planetrees go bare DEC 16 - DEC 22 Common Raven visits DEC 23 - DEC 29 New Yorkers start hibernating in their dens DEC 30 - JAN 5 Falcon courtshipJAN 6 - JAN 12 Late flowers enter vegetative state JAN 13 - JAN 26 Freezing southeasterly winds JAN 13 - JAN 19 Gradient skies of blue, lavender and white · Only perennial greens remain JAN 20 - JAN 26 First deep freeze · Fast moving Cirrocumulus clouds JAN 27 - FEB 2 First of season Common Grackles FEB 3 - FEB 9 Young squirrels leave nests FEB 10 - FEB 16 Grass sprouts FEB 17 - FEB 23 Daffodil Shoots appear FEB 24 - MAR 2 First False Spring MAR 3 - MAR 9 First flowers (crocus, hyacinth, lenten-rose) MAR 10 - MAR 16 American Woodcocks arrive and Northern Cardinals sing MAR 17 - MAR 23 Trees buds swell · American Robins sing MAR 24 - MAR 30 Eastern Phoebe arrives MAR 31 - APR 7 Palm and Pine warblers, Golden-crowned Kinglets, Eastern Phoebes, Chipping Sparrows, and Hermit Thrushes · Bumblebees appear · Migrating sparrows · Forsythia & Northern Spicebush flowers · Cherry and Red Maple and Magnolia blossoms · American Hornbeams sprout catkins
Notes & Acknowledgements
For a fine-grained avian calendar of Brooklyn, you might click here. (And be patient! Link is slow-loading.)
This project wouldn’t be possible without the iNaturalist app—a canonical example of a more perfect internet. Technology that reconnects us to the earth and to each other.
A Matron Saint thank you to Jenny Odell, whose work reshaped my thinking—first about space, then about time—and whose influence is inseparable from how I glimpse the world now.
Anytime I embark on, and actually see through, a work of devotion, I remember to mention War of Art author Steven Pressfield. His book on daily practice and honoring the muses never fails to delight and motivate me.
Thanks are also due to Friends of McGolrick, to horticultural gods Lauren Clark, Lisa Bloodgood and Alex Kuchta, to the NBPA, to Mary Selig of NYC Parks, and to the many Garden Club volunteers who plant and maintain native flora in our tiny urban preserve.
As I review and redo the work—yes, the saga continues—I’m making one significant change going forward: I’ll omit non-native, ornamental plants from the calendar. These imported, showy, or city-hardy species didn’t evolve in our bioregion and, as a result, don’t naturally—or most powerfully—support its web of life.
A final thanks to my brilliant friend Rachel, who turned me on to the Japanese Microseasons a little more than a year ago.
