I begin writing about the delicate sow thistles and (coincidentally) one of their seeds flutter 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 and 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 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 which quivers in the breeze.
My attention is drawn back to the ants and I attempt to decipher the species claiming ownership of this new residence.
The fire ant, never deterred, tends 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 honey dew they leave behind and nothing gets wasted.
I am slightly comforted knowing when I am bitten by the fiery devils that 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 to their nests you will find ‘bone piles’.
The carpenters nest and create ‘galleries’ throughout the yard debris and are the modest of the tribes.
The pyramid ants do not stray far, another characteristic of the big-head ants. 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 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 intelligences, a visible miniature, not miniscule, universe teems with magical intricacies. We do not readily see them until we purposely burrow down 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 an 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. I save him from the ball of my pen before getting up.
I walk back along the old path. The oak flowers have now melded with the fallen leaves creating a sienna colored carpet for my walk home.
