I begin writing about the delicate sow thistles, and (coincidentally) one of their seeds flutters over and lands on my hand.
This tiny meadow grows both the yellow sows and the purple-red tassels. One of the candelabras boasts seventeen candles. The tip of each bud resembles a burning flame.
I have been watching four ants. At first glance, they appear to be making beds in the holes of the sandstone rock in my circle. A closer look reveals them removing stems. Maybe they are replacing the old bedding since they are now turning leaves over and gathering tiny twigs. They carry these over a pile of dried oak flowers before climbing back down the rock face (likened to a large cliff face for us) and into their nests. I could not see where they placed their twigs inside, but they returned with empty hands.
Is this a new home wedged between the rock and ground like big-headed ants tend to build? Is this a restoration? When will it be completed, who will live there, and for how long? They also haul plant stalks back to their site. They work so diligently and move their legs so fast that they appear to be hovering in midair around the rock face. The illusion grants them wings for their duty.
At first, there were only two ants, and then, from behind me, another two scurried forward to help. Were they called? How did they know to come? A few moments later, all work temporarily ceases.
Looking further out, thistle seeds, tumbling like falling snowflakes, are trapped by a web that quivers in the breeze.
I am drawn back to the ants and attempt to decipher the species claiming ownership of this new residence.
The fire ants, never deterred, tend not to live under rocks, but they and the pyramids, which leave a crater in their mounds, are all partial to honeydew. Not the melon but the sugary-rich secretion the aphids produce when eating their sappy meals.
The ants love the honeydew they leave behind, and nothing gets wasted.
I am slightly comforted knowing that when I am bitten by the fiery devils, the pyramid ants, living close by the fire ant mounds, enjoy eating them and washing them down with their dewy drinks.
You never see them fight and kill the fire ants, but if you look at their nests, you will find ‘bone piles.’
The carpenters nest and create ‘galleries’ throughout the yard debris and are the modest of the tribes.
Another characteristic of the big-head ants is that pyramid ants do not stray far. They travel as far as a hundred yards for food, but in comparison to the fire ant, which doubles that distance, the pyramid ant has barely left home.
Another event is taking place to the east of the construction zone. Two aphids are hanging upside down from a thin blade of grass using only their hind legs. They hold a single laurel berry between their bodies and are devouring it. It appears too big for them to handle. Their stylets sunk deep into the core; they suck out the remains of their meal of one berry between the two of them – literally.
The sun has disappeared, and the wood sorrels have turned in, but it remains a decadent cloudy morning.
The ants, although appearing to be meandering, continue to be, without asking, unhindered by any obstacle.
The squirrel appears fluid as he pounces across the waving sea of grass. He has spied on me. Before climbing the orange tree, he stops and looks at me again with conviction. He grunts, sticks his neck out, and runs to the top before jumping over to the live oak branch.
Like the unseen, invisible intelligence, a visible miniature, not minuscule, universe teems with magical intricacies. We do not readily see them until we purposely burrow into this tiny realm.
Admiring the candelabras of the purple sow thistle again, I notice an inchworm attached to one of the blooms. He is adorned with a snake-like pattern.
The remaining orange fragrance mixes with the wild lantana, creating a masterpiece of aroma.
The anoles stretch their necks around the rocks and peer at me wisely.
The aphids, now having dropped their ball, remain on the flower, sated.
I have never been more thoroughly entertained in any given hour.
The gray heron has just announced her arrival and landed in the water oak sprawling out over the pond.
The orange spider on my notepad is running in circles on foreign ground. Before getting up, I save him from the ball of my pen.
I walk back along the old path. The oak flowers have melded with the fallen leaves, creating a sienna-colored carpet for my walk home.
