More Insect Photos

Folks are making some real nice insect pics these days—including the eye-popping colorama snapshots discussed in my previous post.

On the opposite end of the visual spectrum, here are some dreamy black and white insect photos I think you will enjoy. Amble on over to this website and click the "in progress" link at the top of the page to get a look at some sweetly spooky insect-lurkers.

Dew Drop In...

These closeup photos of insects covered in early morning dew have been going around the Interweb for a few weeks now, and for good reason. Looky here.

I love it that the guy who took these is relatively new to photography. He gets up in the middle of the night to hunt for the insects before the dew has dried and they awaken from torpor to resume their active, sun-warmed lives.

Ferreting out the insects is no easy task. Nor is identifying them once they are found and photographed. The photographer, Miroslaw Swietek, says his insect identification books are so dew-soaked as to be pretty useless. In that rich metaphor, one senses the ultimate meaning of life.

Get your fill of Swietek's grand photos here.

Three Bug Blogs I Like A Lot

I respect people who unabashedly put their love(s) out there, so let's start with I Love Insects, an info-rich blog by an entomology student who professes a "perhaps unreasonable appreciation for arthropods." Perhaps, maybe, yeah...But I say, nothing unreasonable about it; bugs are a most worthy obsession!

The Marvelous in Nature covers a lot of ground. Literally. The author, Seabrooke Leckie, is a fabulous writer who really does her homework and in so doing, conveys deep delight in and knowledge of the natural world in ways that are always enriching and enjoyable. Moths are one of her Big Things, but she writes about whatever Mother Nature presents to her, whether it's a spring peeper on her porch, the trout lilies heralding spring, or a cardinal obsessed with the rear-view mirror of her car.

Bug Girl's Blog is also well worth your attention, though the author is on (what we hope will be a temporary) hiatus. There's more than enough here, though, to satisfy your burning desire for eclectic and funky insect-related info for a long time to come.

Soon or soonish, I'll roundup some of my favorite bee and beekeeping blogs. Right now, I'm having too much fun being out and about, syncing my winter-steeped system with the onset of this most glorious spring.

Bugs, Up Close and Personal

In the mood for bug?

These insect "micrographs" by Steve Gschmeissner will, I promise, blow your mind. They were taken using a Scanning Electron Microscope, which (so I read) can magnify its subjects up to a million times—a concept I can't even really wrap my brain around (but then I'm not an SEM).

The full gallery appears on the Telegraph website. When you go to this page, after you take in the phenomenal blue flea, note the small photo gallery on the upper right side of the page and arrow through the entire gallery of 12 stunning shots.
To whet your appetite, the image above is a colored SEM micrograph of the head of a bee (Photo by Steve Gschmeissner).

Bugging the Supermodel

I do so love the Internets!

My recent travels in OnlineLand has led me to the marvelous, intricate work of Julia Stoess, who creates "greatly enlarged, scientifically correct" insect models that shimmer with beauty.

Take, for example, her stunning rendition of the Common Grasshopper, or her exquisite Common Green Lacewing. Meditate for a moment on a May Bug. Or eavesdrop on the tete-a-tete of this pair of Black Garden Ants.

So many bugs, so little time."Common Grasshopper" by Julia Stoess

And in other insect-related news...

There's a fascinating new study out on how serotonin (a mood-regulating chemical found in the human brain, as well as in other animals and even mushrooms) triggers swarming behavior in locusts. As a bee-lover and a once and future Swarm Catcher, I'm always eager to read about the fascinating phenomenon of swarming.

Check out the story on National Public Radio.

Read the Press Release (dated 1/29/09) from the American Association for the Advancement of Science entitled Serotonin Brings Locusts Together.

Learn more about that fascinating substance, serotonin.

And, while you're at it, get the real dirt on how soil-borne bacteria can spark the production of serotonin and turn us all into "happy campers."

Cross-pollination with Festival of the Trees

Very excited to have had my photo of a freewheeling caterpillar accepted for the recent Festival of The Trees blog carnival, a most engaging project. The picture chosen by FOT is part of a series featured in my Nature is an Art Gallery post in early Aug.

A Disquieting Inflorescence

No, it's not a posthumously published Edward Gorey story, but a ubiquitous scoundrel of a plant named burdock. You may recall that in the recent Got Milkweed? post, we explored the risky nature of pollinating that flower—talk about unsafe sex!

Well, burdock puts milkweed to shame when it comes to pathological tendencies. Three years ago, an innocent looking burdock blossom savagely murdered a beautiful young hummingbird at the edge of my garden and earned my eternal wrath. Since then, I've done all I can to eradicate it with a scythe. It's great exercise!

It's also a Sisyphean undertaking. My bemused neighbors occasionally catch me in the act and shake their heads. "You'll never get rid of that stuff," they say, unaware that I've got a vendetta to fulfill and more than enough Italian in my blood to make good on it. However, as one who at least aspires to mental hygiene, I ritualistically transform the bitter herb of revenge into the sweet heirloom tomato of environmental correctness by building mountain-high compost piles out of the burdock's elephantine leaves and massive stems. Again—good exercise!

The irony is that burdock would be a great weed to have around if it didn't have such murderous tendencies. The roots are edible (I've had some wonderful Japanese preparations and I know it's popular in old-world Italian cooking). The flowers are a pretty purple. And come to find out, the honeybees and bumblebees really like it. So what's not to like?

The problem lies in the tiny, Velcro-like barbs that surround the base of the flower. (In fact, the man who invented Velcro reported having gotten the idea from observing these, or similar, plants.)

Although most pollinators seem to make their visits to the flowers without incident, plenty don't. Between the horrifying hummer incident and a bird skeleton I found stuck to the dried flowers one winter, I am so over this plant!
As if the above-mentioned incidents weren't enough, the other morning, I found a bat struggling to get free from a burdock flower. I ran home, threw on my beek suit and gloves, got my "surgical equipment" and freed it, but its wings had been torn and I believe it perished after I left it, still clinging upside-down to the burdock stem—one of the most forlorn sights I've come upon in a long time.
Afterwards, in the interest of further building my case against this pernicious plant, I conducted a brief census of a patch of burdock and found 2 stuck honeybees—one practically mummified, the other still alive but beyond assistance.
I assume the evolutionary excuse for this barbed structure is dispersal. The idea would be that the dried, seed-rich flower adheres (temporarily) to the leg of a deer, say, and is transported to another area, thereby extending its range. Just so we know it's not being mean for the hell of it.

The thing is, it's a pretty good-looking plant and it clearly appeals to the local pollinators. So let's for a moment simply enjoy these images of burdock at its best.
A bee's-eye view.

Inviting-looking pollen available to all who chose to provide pollination services herein—but watch those barbs!

An old girl (note tattered wings) with pollen-dusted head.

Coming in for a landing....

A lovely bumblebee virtually saturated in fairy dust.

The great chronicler of honeybee life, Maurice Maeterlinck, spoke eloquently of the sadness we often find alongside nature's beauty, abundance, and joy.

"...all things in nature are sad, when our eyes rest too closely upon them....At the present hour the duty before us is to seek out that which perhaps may be hiding, behind these sorrows; and, urged on by this endeavor, we must not turn our eyes away, but steadily, fixedly, watch these sorrows and study them, with a courage and interest as keen as though they were joys. It is right that before we judge nature, before we complain, we should at least ask every question that we can possibly ask."

Words to live by...with scythe firmly in hand.

Nature is an Art Gallery

Here's why I never miss going to galleries or museums when I'm in the middle of nowhere: the compositions of nature, the element of surprise, the arresting abstractions, the perfectamundo of it all....

Spiders!

Some wasps—or are they hornets? I'm still not clear on the difference—have set up shop on the porch, and it's been fun watching their pretty grey nest develop over the past few weeks. The wasps/hornets are definitely a presence on the porch, but so far we've all managed to stay out of each other's way. (I'm not going to even THINK about spraying pesticides with honeybees around! Besides which, I've got my karma to protect.)

The other day, as I was heading to the bee yard, I came upon this scene—a wasp struggling mightily to escape the relatively small web of a relatively small spider.
As I watched this rather horrifying drama unfold, I wasn't sure who to root for. On the one hand, working with bees, I've become more appreciative of their near-relatives, the wasps and hornets. On the other hand, I'm a big spider fan.

I tore myself away from the wrestling match to take a few pics of the honeybees and when I came back 10 minutes later, the victor was clear.

I then headed up to the garden to take some pictures of the bees on the borage plants. There, I found a goldenrod spider (a.k.a. "flower spider") polishing off one of "my" honeybees!Mortified as I was to see a beloved bee meet such a premature end, I had to admire the spider's grace and stealth. I don't think crab spiders (the family to which goldenrod spiders belong) even use a web—I believe they ambush their prey.
See how frayed the bee's wings are? That's a sign of aging, and it may have made this girl more vulnerable to ambush. Perhaps her end—while sad—wasn't so premature, after all.

P.S. I just checked on the crab spiders in one of my field guides and read this: "[Crab spiders] do not spin web snares, retreats, or overwintering nests, but the male of some species may cover a prospective female with loose silken webbing and tie the female down."

We'll just file that one under "no comment."

Got Milkweed?

I’m glad I asked the farmer’s son not to cut the humble stand of milkweed along the barbed wire fence. Twice a summer, the local dairy farmers hay the field for cow feed and bedding. If the weather’s right and the field’s growing well, they might just get a third cut in.

But the honeybees have been so enjoying the 207 milkweed plants (yes, I counted them), that when I heard the tractor coming up the road for the second haying of summer, I ran outside to intercept. I pointed to the purple flowers and asked the driver—the farmer’s 12-year-old son—to please spare them. The kid visibly recoiled when I explained that I’d started beekeeping and that the bees really loved those flowers. Thanks to his kind compliance in mowing around the milkweed-populated edge of the field (probably in large part to avoid the dreaded bees), the frenzied action on the milkweed blossoms has continued unabated for more than two weeks now.Along with the pleasure of watching dozens of honeybees visit the milkweed blossoms, there is the delight of listening to the satisfied work-sound of the proverbial busy bees. Several times a day, I find myself drawn up the hill to the milkweed stand to receive a dose of "happy buzz" therapy. The bees softly rising and landing on the blossoms, the hazy-sweet aroma permeating the area, and the concerted hum of bees fulfilling their life’s mission are quintessential expressions of summertime—the place I want to be.

The bees have drawn me to the milkweed, but the milkweed has turned out to hold a fascination all its own. Its a pollinator-magnet, hosting a kaleidoscopic array of life forms so fascinating I’m seriously considering a mid-life career shift to entomology.

Milkweed also has a nefarious side, as we'll see in a moment. But first let's walk on the sunny side of the Milkweed Street and say howdy to some of the many denizens of and visitors to this remarkable plant.

Many of us know milkweed as the host plant for the famed monarch butterfly, which (unfortunately) has proven too nimble and elusive for this paparazzo. I have been able to catch the monarch in its caterpillar form: an unparalleled example of the marriage of style and substance.

Other, less camera shy butterflies have been enjoying the milkweed as well.
The Great Spangled Frittilary

The Eastern Comma (At least I think it's a comma. If there are any serious bug people reading this, please feel free to correct this or any other inaccurate IDs.)

Some kind of Hairstreak (possibly Edwards)

The Eastern Tiger Swallowtail

Some type of skipper.

Some other kind of skipper.

There have also been many moths, including one of my day-flying faves, the Virginia Ctenuchid Moth.

But the real revelation was going to visit these plants at night. Hundreds—and I mean hundreds—of moths gather there, making the daytime scene look subdued by comparison. My night shots aren't so hot, but you get the idea.
The cast of characters seen during the day also includes...The Small Eastern Milkweed Bug

The leafcutting bee (I think that's what it is)

A drone fly.

Japanese Beetle

A bee-like fly?

Golden Northern Bumblebee (I think—in any case, it's adorable!)

Milkweed Longhorn

Green Stinkbug (Note that the lower part of the insect's left leg is missing. Also note the little yellow "droplet" adhering to its right leg. The story behind all this will soon be revealed.)

An unidentified dragonfly.

A beetle and an ant.

Some kind of bumblebee?

Hornets and wasps of various kinds.

Now let's turn our attention to the aforementioned "nefarious" side of milkweed. WARNING: Some of these images are of a graphic nature (pun intended)—and may upset small children or exceedingly sheltered adults.

Some weeks ago, much to my horror, I began to notice honeybees entering the hive with tiny bright yellow "spokes" attached to their feet, giving the appearance of some kind of deformity. These bees were "limping" into the hive, dragging their feet in a most disturbing manner. In most cases, the deformity appeared on one or both of the hind feet, but sometimes it was apparent on the front feet as well, as in the case of this poor bee.Needless to say, I freaked. I then proceeded to spend a quiet, anxiety-filled evening Googling variations on the terms honeybee foot deformity, honeybee foot anomaly, honeybee foot anatomy, honeybee foot fungus, honeybee medical conditions, and honeybee disease. Like a first-year medical student studying malady after malady, it wasn't long before I started experiencing symptoms of the many horrid honeybee diseases out there. However, nothing I found resembled the strange foot disorder.

Luckily, my Organic Beekeeping listserv once again came to the rescue. Someone on the list explained that if milkweed was blooming in my area (and it was), the foot "deformity" might actually be little pieces of milkweed pollen that had gotten stuck on the bees' feet. Sure enough, the very next day while perusing the milkweed I found a dead bee with these bits of pollen stuck to both her hind feet and forefeet. During the same visit, I got this photo of a bee working the milkweed blossoms with this strange botanical material attached to her feet and proboscis.
I also began to notice that various insects, including honeybees, flies, and moths, were becoming "stuck" to the blossoms. Here, a fly struggles to extricate its foot.
It seems the milkweed plant extracts a price for access to its alluring nectar. According to a delightful book published in the 1920s called Honey Plants of North America:

"Milkweed flowers are called pinch-trap flowers because they possess a remarkable clip-mechanism found in no other family of plants. Two club-shaped masses of pollen are attached by flexible bands to a small, dry, triangular disc placed midway between them. In this membraneous disc there is a wedge-shaped slit at one end. In its effort to obtain a foothold on the smooth flowers an insect is likely to thrust a claw, leg, antennae, or tongue into one of the slits. If one of these organs is drawn upward in the slit, the dry disc becomes tightly clamped to it. When the insect flies away it carries with it the disc and the two masses of pollen strapped to it. Exposed to the air, the strap-like stalks dry and draw the pollinia close together. As the insect alights on another flower, they are easily thrust between two anther wings, where they come in contact with the stigma; but, once inserted and pulled upward, they can not again be withdrawn. The insect can obtain its liberty only by breaking the connecting bands. If it cannot do this, it perishes slowly of starvation. Disc after disc may thus become attached to an insect until it is crippled or helpless."

Here's a closer look at the "ball and chain" structure in question. Note the tiny black string of "beads" attached to the bee's feet, as well as the bright yellow pollen.

A captive moth struggling to escape. Milkweed Street is rich in colorful characters, but not without its sad dramas.

A moth that didn't make it. Note the moth-dust on the three surrounding buds: evidence of a frantic, protracted struggle.
A limb sacrificed for the greater good.
After my psychodrama with Google, I felt a little less alone when I read the remainder of the entry in the Honey Plants book:

"Not a season passes that inquiries are not received from beekeepers requesting information in regard to these peculiar appendages; and many explanations of them have been given by persons not familiar with the flowers of the milkweed. Some regard them as a fungus, others as a protuberance growing on the bee's leg, and still others as a winged insect-enemy of the bee."

And here's what it's all about: once pollinated, the flower morphs into a tiny pod that grows to become the familiar, canoe-shaped milkweed pod that cracks open in fall and spreads its silky-topped seed pods through wind dispersal.
The milkweed—its pedestrian, somewhat demeaning name notwithstanding—turns out to be a rather exciting plant: sweet-smelling and good-looking enough to attract a dazzling array of pollinators, unique in its role as the sole host plant for the glorious monarch butterfly, and clever enough to have evolved a form of pollination insurance unique in the plant world.

The humble stand of milkweed at the edge of the field has turned out to be a most intriguing spot to hang out this summer. Like I said, I'm glad the farmer didn't cut it down.
***
A weathered old honeybee with tattered wings works the milkweed blossom.