As I gazed at the last page of the calendar and pondered what to write about in my end-of-the-year column, I decided it should be something that epitomizes the Piedmont region. I didn't have to ponder long because, as far as I'm concerned, the essence of the Piedmont is Broomsedge.

Broomsedge. Now there's a plant oft-overlooked because it's so plentiful, not just in the Piedmont but all across the southeastern United States. It's also an organism that's mis-named, since it's actually a grass and not a sedge. Nonetheless, when I close my eyes and think "Piedmont," I get a strong mental image dominated by views I've had of this glorious, overlooked plant.

Broomsedge (Andropogon virginicus) is a prolific perennial grass that attains its densest growth in the Piedmont. Usually an indicator of poor but well-drained soil, Broomsedge inhabits sunny hillsides and savannahs, abandoned fields, roadsides, and open woods. A persistent and opportunistic plant, it occasionally shows up in bogs and even thrives on elevated hummocks in salt marshes along the coast. As many as 14 similar species occur in the southeast, mostly on the coastal plain, but A. virginicus is the most common type in the upcountry.

Unless you live in the middle of a city surrounded by concrete and asphalt, Broomsedge at least puts in a token appearance somewhere near your residence. It often invades vacant urban lots or grows on uncut highway medians, but it is at its finest in the multitude of old fields that dot our area. If you depart a Piedmont town on nearly any road, within a mile or two you'll be treated to the pleasing panorama of a Broomsedge field.

Locally, Broomsedge seed often germinates in abandoned farm fields the spring after cultivation ceases. That first season the plants may only get six inches high, but their root networks spread rapidly, and by the third year three-foot-tall Broomsedge is well on its way to becoming the dominant plant in early old-field succession. Asters or other plants may dominate abandoned fields if there is sufficient water, but Broomsedge typically asserts itself during rain shortages common to the Piedmont in mid and late summer. Eventually, shrubs and young trees will take over old fields; by then, Broomsedge has spent six or eight years as "king of the hill."

During its sojourn, the Broomsedge plant sprouts from its rootstock, forming a dense clump of a dozen or so stalks. Primary propagation occurs after the plant blooms in September and produces seeds with delicate feather-like wings. The wings aren't big enough to carry the windborne seed over great distances, but they're just fine for expanding Broomsedge territory a few yards at a time.

As the commonest member of its genus in the east, Broomsedge provides valuable cover for some wildlife species but may grow too densely for others. During winter months, juncos, chipping sparrows, and field sparrows hide among the grassy clumps and get a dietary bonus from nutritious Broomsedge seeds. These songbirds often perch high on the plant's tough, erect stalks, plucking and discarding the feathery seedwings and eating the narrow, half-inch-long fruits.

White-footed mice and other small rodents also dine on seeds and leaves of Broomsedge. White-tailed deer are known to browse on its young foliage, but mature plants are usually too dry and nutrient-poor to provide much forage value. Broomsedge fields survive even when herds of cattle graze within them, probably because the cows appear to select greener grasses and succulent weeds over Broomsedge.

I guess one reason I like Broomsedge so much is because of those four winters my family and I spent in Minnesota during graduate school. I distinctly remember how we felt each time we departed the Twin Cities at Christmas time. With the thermometer at 20 degrees below zero and three feet of snow on the ground, we would board the family van and aim it in a southerly direction. After driving hundreds of miles through white-shrouded landscapes, even the brown of dead leaves on the ground was a welcome sight. We used Broomsedge fields as first indicators that we had escaped the ravages of the northern winter, and we delighted at the thought of frolicking on Piedmont hillsides without snowshoes and parkas to weigh us down.

During my years as a naturalist I've spent many pleasant hours afield, searching for interesting things to study and photograph. I've never actually been able to capture the true color of Broomsedge on film, and it's even harder for me to describe it in words. If I close my eyes, I can see an old winter field bathed in the afternoon sun. Against the blue of a crystal clear sky, the Broomsedge seems to glow, sometimes appearing reddish or pale orange, sometimes having the same color I imagine when I hear the verse about "amber waves of grain."

In the middle of any Broomsedge field on winter afternoons, I get a visual treat whichever way I face. If I stand with the sun warming my back, the Broomsedge ahead of me seems aflame in its unique golden aura. If I stand looking west, the plants' backlit stalks are outlined by millions of tiny glowing halos where seed wings diffuse the light.

Still, I find my words falling short as I try to describe how Broomsedge looks and what it means to me. Perhaps late in the afternoon on January 1 you could help out by walking across some old abandoned field near here. Watching the sun move lower in the sky, each of us could formulate new year's resolutions and reflect upon the bounty that nature hands us free of charge.

If everybody tried this, I bet we'd all notice that our greatest blessings are often as simple and as common as the Piedmont Broomsedge field--aglow in the warm, mellow light of the peaceful afternoon sun.

Happy New Year!

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