Autumnal Surprises

At our local cemetery, we find a multitude of geese. Some are leisurely year-round residents, while others are intent on yanking up grass, readying for their migration south. At least two hundred birds on a steep hillside suddenly call out, fly up together, with flapping wingbeats and cries, creating a deafening departure, an unexpected cacophony. A sense of deep nature right in the backyard of our city, 

The residents are fearless when it comes to humans and cars — napping in the road, crossing over with ease, meandering among the traffic. The migrants appear more skittish and fearful. Some migrants fly directly over the car on their way — close, charismatic.

I know many dislike these birds and their plentiful droppings. They are great parents and proliferate with ease, hence the large numbers. But I find them elegant, even with their waddling gait.

They surprise me one day when I find dozens in a small puddle after a rain. The water is surrounded by perhaps a hundred geese, the lucky central birds sipping, bathing, skimming food from the surface. I have often seen them in puddles, perhaps six birds sharing. But this large group is anything but peaceful, as they fight for space in that seemingly enchanted pool. 

The curious part of all this is that the river, fresh and flowing, is very close. I wonder what appeal the puddle has — maybe serendipity or a change of pace. 

Next, we stop to admire small trees which overlook the tracks. Their delicate leaves are now a soft yellow. But down below, in the sandy soil, we find many round holes with a ring of soft sand around them, and a spiral funnel leading to what appears to be a dead end. I have never seen anything like it, and guess it may be a different type of anthill, or a minuscule bird bath, or — I have no idea. I send a photo to my naturalist friend who is great at identifying all aspects of nature, and he responds that these are antlion holes made by the larval form of that insect. The larva is tiny, but in an enlarged pic it looks terrifying and fierce, with gnarly claws. It uses them to create the spiraling funnel down to the death trap below, as ants and other small insects are caught in this ingenious way. One day I see the two fearful, grotesque claws sticking up just a bit. 

The antlion has four stages, the first of which is the egg, then the larva, which overwinters, perhaps in a state of torpor or hibernation. In spring the pupa emerges to create a cocoon, which then morphs into a delicate insect, looking very much like a damselfly or dragonfly. But it is not the same species as either, and is distinguished by its long, trailing, club-ended antennae. This process can take up to two years. 

Hidden below are nature’s secrets; this process amazes with its design and complexity, horror and beauty.