Did you notice that ring on the top of the storage space to the right of my poinsettia photos? If so, you might have been curious about what it was. Not just a ring of dirt from where I moved the pot. This is what was going on! It reminds me of humans evacuating a hospital before a hurricane or after a disaster. And yes, I did feel a bit guilty. But it looks like their backup plan worked just fine. (Click on the first photo to enlarge photos and read captions.)
Whe I returned from two months at the beach, I was amazed to find poinsettias blooming even more profusely than they had bloomed in december. Notice the ring on the top of the bodega to the right of the flowers?
It was partially soil from the bottom of the pot, but it was also hundreds of tiny ants
hurrying to move their eggs to safer ground.
Obviously, the bottom of the pot had been their nursery.
Now they moved in orderly twos
following the line of the window edge
A few did not avoid the trap of a spider web.
But eventually, all had relocated in the light sconce above. When I went out six hours later, all was still. Not a sign of a tiny ant or egg, until I turned over the pot from the location I had moved it to. About 50 of the ants had re-relocated back to their former home. When I turned the pot sideways, they scurried around like mad, grabbing their assigned eggs and making off again. Hurriedly, I set the pot back down again. No time for a photo this time.
Spider on the ceiling, legs evenly spread round, I can’t help but wonder what keeps you ceiling-bound. Have you little suction cups welded to each foot, and if so, has nature adequately put each one on this spider far above my bed so it will not disconnect and land upon my head?
I woke up much earlier than usual today, and after I posted my poem and photos, I went back to bed. I closed my eyes for a short time, then opened them and stared fixedly at the ceiling above the bed. It was not fully light in the room, but in the diffused light from the curtains which form a sort of scrim in the room, I could see a black blotch on the ceiling right above me. Trying to figure out what it was, I scrunched my eyes up and eventually made out lines radiating out from the center. It finally occurred to me that this might be a spider. Further scrunching determined that it was, indeed, a delicate-looking spider perhaps an inch or two in diameter. It hasn’t moved in the half hour or so it has taken for me to write its laudatory poem, locate my camera, arrange for adequate lighting and camera settings, shoot its portrait and to get posted. It will probably still be there tonight. If so, its fame will probably be expanded with another poem. If I remember.
Just as I’m ready to ingest the morsel I consider best and so picked out from all the rest to be my last bite, savored with zest— last memory of this gourmet fest— from north and south and east and west, descends each winged little pest, radared in on diabolical quest as though invited at my behest. They put my appetite to the test, settling as though to the nest, their hairy feet intimately pressed upon that morsel that I loved best. I wave my hand over them, lest they eat too much, then I confess I guiltily consume the rest.
It’s that time of year when flying termites descend by the thousands, chew off their wings and go in search of delicious wood to munch. These fellas thankfully got caught in a huge rainstorm that lasted for hours, pinning them by their wings. I woke up to drifts of them in places like these steps up to the garage. Kinda ghastly, but definitely oddball.