At dusk, the ginger lilies’ powerful perfume fills the yard, drawing hawk moths and sphinx moths. They arrive in the last moments of twilight, large shadows flitting silently among blooms that almost glow in the dark. The moths hover as they sip nectar with impressively long tongues.
Tonight’s visitors were mostly Carolina sphinx moths, a new species for the yard.
After a few days of clouds and rain, mushrooms are taking over the yard. With the help of my camera’s macro function, it feels like a glimpse of Wonderland.
When I found this praying mantis in the ginger lilies last week, I wondered if it might be the same one that I photographed earlier this summer.
Adult cicadas are not built for survival. After years underground, the mature males and females tunnel upward and undergo a final, laborious molt. Then they test new wings. Adjust their eyes to the unfamiliar sky. Their last weeks are spent in sunlight and flight and pheromones. They feed and sing. Mate and die.
This summer I’ve watched the cicadas more closely than usual, though I don’t know why. Something about their abandoned husks on the fence caught and held my attention. My moonlit strolls in the yard turned into vigils as I witnessed the cicadas’ midnight molts. I’ve found them in the trees and on the driveway and on the deck. And I’ve begun to wonder if they mourn for the dim, damp earth of their youth. I wonder if they dread what emerges with their wings, if they fear their rapid senescence and dwindling strength. Does death mean anything different to a cicada than it does to me? Maybe it is simply another form of molting, for both of us.
A few new arrivals in the yard:
I believe this butterfly is a Common Buckeye.
After a brief thunderstorm, this young Northern Mockingbird seemed very unhappy with its damp and disheveled feathers.
And I would love some help identifying this moth. Any ideas?
Rae Spencer 