S, a fellow ode-o-phile, invited me to meet her at friends' ponds on another part of the mountain.
Same elevation, different water, same bugs. (Nineteen species I counted.)
We wondered aloud what makes the difference between there and here (I have seen some odes she hasn't, and she has seen some I haven't).
Like the experts, we have no idea.
But we enjoyed the outing, the beautiful weather, and the generosity of her friends.
That is . . . until I helped flush (unintentionally) a newly emerged ode about which she was curious, and a red-winged blackbird snagged it. Only a few feet in front of me. Despite my frantic screaming (cursing, really) and arm-waving.
Sometimes ode-watching hurts.