In case my young neighbors needed me while their parents were out last night, I turned on my porch light. The girls didn't drop by, but lots of moths, beetles, and katydids did.
A large moth (Anisota virginiensis or Southern Pink-lined Moth, I think, though no record [so far] has been reported for my county) stared straight at me when I decided to turn out the light. But then, how could I, without first making her acquaintance?
Who knows why she alit on my window. Even scientists are divided on the issue of moths' attraction to flame and artificial light. Some say artificial light "throw[s] off their internal navigation system"; others that the moon or a bright light "as a navigation beacon"; still others that light mimics the "frequencies . . . of sex pheromones." In truth, no one really knows why.
I prefer to think that this moth, this particular and particularly beautiful amber and lavender-rose female, merely wanted a congenial place to rest and found in me a kindred spirit.
of spring at the kitchen window, this moth will, tomorrow night if the prediction of sun holds, be one of many, winging the bugs back.
Welcome home, stranger!
Prone across the steep trail down into Shakerag Hollow, I heard this: "Are you all right?"
Where I walk, strangers often ask me this question because I look like the old woman-who-has-fallen-and-can't-get-up. I'm only taking pictures, but that's not always readily apparent.
"I'm fine," I said, "just taking pictures."
"What of?" he asked.
"This hepatica, and I'm not having much luck."
"Oh," he said. "What's that called?" And I told him again.
"Have you seen the multicolored things hanging from the trees?" he asked.
"Not yet," I answered. "I am only just now going downhill. Are they insect cocoons?"
"I think they're for Monarch butterflies! They're in all different colors and hanging about head-high," he said cheerfully and headed up the hill.
Not possible, I thought. I finished shooting the frustratingly tiny flower and took off, looking up rather than down for a while.
First, I saw one of the colorful felt birds someone has hung along the Perimeter Trail. Surely he didn't think . . . no . . . . And then I found this (and several others):
I've seen little packages like this one before, and they weren't butterfly nurseries. Moths. That's what's developing in there, but what kind I don't know. I've seen more than a few, and I've finally learned to recognize them.
I admire the gentleman's certainty and enthusiasm. He asked if I were a wildflower expert. "Not quite!" I exclaimed. "An admirer, perhaps!" What I didn't tell him is that every spring I confuse the rue anemone for the hepatica and when the Odonates begin to emerge (soon, please?) I must review them once again in one of my books.
Just call me enthusiastic dilettante, writ large.
caterpillar cocooned in a leaf?
I think so.
Maybe.
I hope so.
Like a surprise ball, only better. I don't have to unwrap this one to find icky little charms and candies. The moth (I think) will emerge when the time comes, and I will check to see if we can both be present at the same time.
Unlikely, I know.
But one can hope.
hangs upside down like a sleeping bat.
What attracts it to my kitchen screen door in mid-day? Why attach itself for much of the afternoon? Is it resting in shade? Waiting for something? What?When I hunker down on the floor -- a tide box under my elbows to steady my camera -- and adjust the camera inches from its head, does the moth watch me as I watch it?Does the moth see me with its enormous eyes? What is the me it sees? Many persons at once? Me many times? Me not all? Are the eyes even open? Are they focused?
For the moth, what is "me"?For me, what is the moth?A beautiful insect, a living thing with barbs and fur, a miracle of flight and stillness at mid-day. Moth Photographers GroupMoth EyesButterflies and Moths of North AmericaThe Butterfly Website
