Tag Archives: common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale)

That which is to come

Faces rise through the soil, ghostly apparitions of life once buried yet clawing its way to the surface.

They call themselves flowers, these earthly beings, these shining, petaled, hued portraits of aliens.

A spotted cucumber beetle (Diabrotica undecimpunctata) makes its ascent over the petals of a common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) (20080301_02425)

They open without a sound, yet other marvelous creatures hear their siren songs and rush to partake of the bountiful visage each proffers.

More than was lost the year before is found again with each blossom, each new life.

A close-up of several crowpoison (a.k.a. crow poison or false garlic; Nothoscordum bivalve) flowers (20080301_02394_p)

Soon their armies will march upon the mountains and plot upon the plains.

Soon their kind will take from the sun all that it fells upon the world, and in that taking they will give as much as they consume.

A western honey bee (a.k.a. European honey bee; Apis mellifera) dives to the heart of a showy evening primrose (Oenothera speciosa) to fetch a bit of pollen (20080412_03273)

Lives will do battle with those risen from the ground, will eat of their flesh, and in doing so will give hope to more faces that will glow in generations to come.

What splendor does war in the vernal birth of our planet!  What marvels do manifest!

Western salsify (Tragopogon dubius) blooms and stalks reaching toward the sky (20080426_04675)

Towers will be built.  Traps will be set.  And more faces will rise than can be counted.

We will watch this, we humans, and we will wonder at the beauty of such beasts.

A western honey bee (a.k.a. European honey bee; Apis mellifera) resting atop a full bloom of wild carrot (a.k.a. bishop’s lace or Queen Anne’s lace; Daucus carota) (20080518_05549)

Even as we shrink away from the heat that besets the selves we wish to protect, dirt will crumble as more leviathans reach forth, climb the air above, strip away their winter skins for spring countenances too long hidden away.

Fields will be colored by them.  Winds will carry their essence.  Eyes will rest upon their forms like so many mouths upon a banquet.

A syrphid fly (a.k.a hover fly; Toxomerus marginatus) feeding on the pollen of a Texas dandelion (a.k.a. false dandelion, Carolina desert-chicory, leafy false dandelion or Florida dandelion; Pyrrhopappus carolinianus) (20080518_05376)

What hope have we in light of such unstoppable invasions?

All hope, for vernal is that which is to come: life from lifelessness, growth from dormancy, brilliance from mundane, and new faces from the ashes of those who came before.

— — — — — — — — — —

Mary offered It’s Time for February Eye Candy and David offered Happy first day of spring!, both posting on the same day no less, and I blame them for this sudden want of mine to see the verdant, abundant life of spring.  Not that I don’t like winter, mind you; I love it, in fact, as it’s my favorite season, yet the naturalist within me desires the overflowing bouquet of marvelous flora and fauna that defines where we go from here.

Photos:

[1] A spotted cucumber beetle (Diabrotica undecimpunctata) makes its ascent over the petals of a common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale).

[2] As toxic as it is beautiful: crowpoison (a.k.a. crow poison or false garlic; Nothoscordum bivalve).

[3] A western honey bee (a.k.a. European honey bee; Apis mellifera) dives to the heart of a showy evening primrose (Oenothera speciosa) to fetch a bit of pollen.

[4] A non-native species considered invasive in many parts, western salsify (Tragopogon dubius) produces large, elegant flowers.  All the towering buds you see around it are of the same species.

[5] A western honey bee (a.k.a. European honey bee; Apis mellifera) resting atop a full bloom of wild carrot (a.k.a. bishop’s lace or Queen Anne’s lace; Daucus carota).  Behind both towers yet another flower of the same plant has yet to open.

[6] A syrphid fly (a.k.a hover fly; Toxomerus marginatus) feeding on the pollen of a Texas dandelion (a.k.a. false dandelion, Carolina desert-chicory, leafy false dandelion or Florida dandelion; Pyrrhopappus carolinianus).

All in a day’s walk – December 24, 2008

Christmas Eve.  Warm weather and plenty of sunshine beckoned me to the lake for an afternoon walk following yet another day of laborious boredom in the office.  Someone has to pay the bills around here…

In the minute plus a few seconds it took me to walk down the private drive into the park, already I had to stop, had to take notice.

A tufted titmouse (Baeolophus bicolor) clinging to the underside of a large branch (2008_12_24_002691)

Have I mentioned how enamored I am of the tufted titmouse (Baeolophus bicolor)?

Something about such small bodies full of such attitude, full of such piss and vinegar.

They enthrall me.

This one clinging to the bottom of a large tree bellowed its opinions upon the still air as I stood beneath.

I love the attitude.  I love that they join in the mobbing of predators even when all other participants dwarf them by leaps and bounds.  I love that they scream their superiority upon the wind sans consideration for the size of all challengers.

I love their bigger-than-life personalities.

After watching this one pillage the trunk to which it clung, I moved on a bit, although I didn’t make it far before I came across a beautiful man who likewise yelled at me as I invaded his space.

A male red-bellied woodpecker (Melanerpes carolinus) perched on the side of a tree (2008_12_24_002697)

A male red-bellied woodpecker (Melanerpes carolinus) flitted from branch to branch prior to landing in the tree under which I stood.

I backed away from both plant and animal the moment I saw him so I could get a better view.

And he immediately complained about the encounter.

I’ve stood beneath this species as two of its kind tussled from high up until they fell to the ground with a thud.

A loud thud, one that worried me as I set my gaze upon the birds wrestling in winter grass.

Both took to wing as I tried to sneak closer, so no serious damage was done, although I feared for both of them with how far they fell and the rather abrupt stop that sounded like a bowling ball hitting the ground.

But on this day, this warm Christmas Eve, no challengers save me could be found, so no tussle ensued.

Yapping the whole way, he climbed further up the tree at which point I left him to his day.

A turkey vulture (Cathartes aura) soaring overhead (2008_12_24_002721)

While American black vultures usually play hard to find, turkey vultures (Cathartes aura) rarely miss an opportunity to be seen.  They’re rather conceited that way, thinking themselves awfully pretty and awfully worth looking at.

After leaving the woodpecker to his quest for lunch, I stopped near the confluence in Sunset Bay to watch some people feeding the waterfowl.  Sure, the city frowns on that practice and posts signs declaring as much, but people still do it.  All the time.

I knelt in the brittle winter grass and wallowed in the sound of it crunching beneath my knees.

Then a shadow passed over me, a large one sweeping across the ground like a paint brush dripping with darkness wielded by a true artist.

I looked up.

The vulture had just started its climb into the air.

Despite being mostly behind trees from my perspective, a tiny space between two ligneous leviathans gave me the room needed to take a photo.

Such beautiful creatures these vultures, these seekers of death who can inflict it as easily as they find it inflicted by others.

A male great-tailed grackle (Quiscalus mexicanus) foraging on the ground (2008_12_24_002733)

Then a brief sound arose from the hoard jockeying for a bit of bread from the old couple feeding the wildlife.  A raspy, throaty, scratching sound I know all too well.

A male great-tailed grackle (Quiscalus mexicanus) finished his declaration of supremacy with a downward sweep to inspect some shiny bauble that caught his attention.

Actually, it was a bit of bread tossed to him by the elderly man.  He seemed to appreciate grackles as much as I do, a feeling rare in these parts where most feel grackles are a nuisance only.

The female grackle who remained close to him made less of a photographic subject as she darted to and fro.

Too bad, too, as she was as lovely as he in very different ways.

A domestic greylag goose (Anser anser) swimming in the creek (2008_12_24_002737)

I think it’s unfortunate that people have released so many domestic swan geese and domestic greylag geese (Anser anser) at the lake.

Whether Chinese or African, these poor birds can hardly fly and have such a limited diet available that they require daily feedings from humans, something teaching other wildlife to depend on us for sustenance.

Yet would I wish them harm?  Clearly: No.

What I do wish is for people to be responsible, to understand the repercussions of their actions, to appreciate the delicate balance this lake requires for it to sustain the biological niche it serves: a full and vigorous wildlife refuge surrounded by some of Dallas’s most inner reaches.

If you can’t stop feeding the wildlife, at least stop feeding them processed foods like white bread.  It’s bad for them; it shortens their lives.

So when peripherally I saw this goose swimming by in the creek, I turned away from the grackle, shifted my knees on the ground, snapped this photo, and then wondered: How can you survive without people feeding you?  How much living will you miss because you need whatever humans provide in the way of sustenance?  How much sympathy can you expect from those who mindlessly tossed you here to eke out a living in a place that can’t support your kind?

Before welling up in tears, thankfully more swift movement from another direction helped me look away, helped me put those thoughts aside.

An American coot (Fulica americana) running by me (2008_12_24_002738)

This American coot (Fulica americana) dashed at full speed toward where I knelt.

But not so much at me as by me.

For I knelt in the brittle, dry grass only an arm’s length from where the elderly couple stood feeding the birds.

I regret that the coot was moving so fast and was so close that I couldn’t get a good photo.

I don’t regret that it was moving so fast and was so close that I captured this full gallop image as it raced headlong toward a free meal ticket.

Unlike the geese, coots do just fine on their own and survive here sans handouts.  But they’re thankful for the treats nonetheless.

It was then I tried gracefully to explain to the well-intentioned man and woman that feeding the animals doesn’t help, and I danced around and finally plunged headlong into saying the dinner rolls they offered made a terrible lunch for these animals, an unhealthy tidbit for humans and animals alike.

Blank stares mixed with offense drifted before me.

So I stood, my knees popping and cracking their complaints, and I turned away and walked to the pier.

An American white pelican (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos) flying above the lake's surface (2008_12_24_002784)

American white pelicans (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos) created perpetual motion with their comings and goings.

Some flew back to the bay after feeding while others flew out of the bay searching for lunch.

Catching this one winging its way back to the sandbar for some preening and rest gave me an opportunity to memorialize the pre-breeding beak.

You’ll notice there is no “horn” on top of its beak.  That horn begins growing in January or February as breeding season approaches.

As each bird prepares to woo a mate and secure a chance at procreating, a growth forms on top of the bill that eventually becomes the pelican version of a rhinoceros horn.

I always know the pelicans will leave soon when all of them sport this neat little accoutrement.

For now I can see they’ll be here a while longer.

A double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) perched in a tree (2008_12_24_002790)

Although Sunset Bay is my favorite place at the lake, large crowds on a welcoming pre-holiday afternoon made it too busy for my tastes.

I headed south along the east shore.

The northern edge of Winfrey Point gave me a moment to stop and appreciate a perched double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus).

My approach caught its attention and it turned to watch me, its jewel-like blue eye capturing the sun with splendor.

But then I realized I was on the wrong end of the bird.

Immediately after I snapped that photo, it’s tail went up.

I pressed the button again.

Then the reason for the lifted tail become clear: This one was clearing its bowels.

I turned away at the last minute considering I was quite close and didn’t have much interest in seeing that from the business end of the bird.

Instead, I moved on.

A killdeer (Charadrius vociferus) standing in an open field of dry grass (2008_12_24_002801)

I rounded Winfrey Point and saw gobs of people lining the shore as far south as Garland Road.  Apparently visiting the lake had become a major draw.

Facing the horde totally stepped on my buzz; therefore, I circled around the point and moved uphill back toward Sunset Bay.

Walking through a winter field of dry grass around these parts can scare up some interesting creatures.

The most common field inhabitant is the killdeer (Charadrius vociferus).

I must have thrashed the afternoon nap of at least a dozen of these plovers.

When they’re resting in brown ground cover as they’re wont to do, they become marvelously invisible until they start moving.

And when they start moving, they put a sharp eye on the interloper—in this case, me!—and they make a ruckus to let the invader know a sacred territory has been breached.

Oops!

I left them to their siesta and continued back toward the bay.

A European starling (Sturnus vulgaris) in nonbreeding plumage perched on a branch (2008_12_24_002837)

Feeling a bit like a lost child making loops through a store to find a parent only to keep seeing the same places over and over again, I passed boisterous crowds of people while trying to make my way through Sunset Bay and toward what I hoped to be quieter places near Stone Tables and places further north.

Along the way I couldn’t help but stop and appreciate some of the winter flora, like skeletal trees holding up the bones of the world for all to see.

And resting upon one such bone was this European starling (Sturnus vulgaris) in nonbreeding plumage.

I can agree with many that this species is invasive and that it has upset the natural order of North America.

I can also agree with many that this species makes life a lot more difficult for our native wildlife.

But I have to add this: We can’t undo what has been done.

Humans loosed the European starling onto this continent in an asinine attempt to introduce all the birds of Shakespeare upon the New World.

That didn’t go so well, at least for native birds who found a great deal of unhealthy competition suddenly set upon them by these aggressor species.

Nevertheless—and I repeat myself—we can’t undo what has been done, and we did it to ourselves.

So I accept the European starling as a disruptive element in our ecosystem.

I don’t like what it does and I don’t like the damage it inflicts, but I wouldn’t kill them all even if I could.  They can’t be blamed for our actions.

I left the starling to its lonely afternoon.

Two male lesser scaups (Aythya affinis) floating on calm water (2008_12_24_002868)

And where did I end up again?

Right back at the pier in Sunset Bay.

The thick mass of humanity had cleared a bit.  But only a bit.

I took the opportunity to crouch on the creaky wooden planks above calm water.

Lesser scaups (Aythya affinis) delight me to no end.  The Daffy Ducks of the world, they tickle me with their cartoonish looks.

Yet animated and childlike though they might seem, they’re also quite beautiful.

These two males floated carefree not too far from where I dangled myself over the lake trying to take photos.

Do they look concerned?

Nope.

A juvenile ring-billed gull (Larus delawarensis) flying by me (2008_12_24_002897)

Stand to leave.

Hear shrieking from the air.

Turn to look.

Busybodies fly all around ready to swoop from the sky and nab tasty goodies from anyone who offers—or who can’t withstand the assault.

This juvenile ring-billed gull (Larus delawarensis) screamed its way by me.

I seriously doubt it had any clue why it was screeching or what it thought it might get in return for the yelling.

Well, truth be told, people expend a lot of effort feeding the wildlife here.

The gull probably thought it worth asking if I had a little something to share.

But I had nothing but the camera.

The bird swept easily through the air and circled the pier for a moment or two, then off it went in search of other trouble.

A white-winged dove (Zenaida asiatica) perched in a tree (2008_12_24_002951)

Still too crowded for my tastes, I again left the pier, only this time I headed east along the creek.  The riparian landscape heavy with trees and thickets always offers a different smorgasbord of creatures.

Where I had first photographed green herons and yellow-crowned night herons, only naked branches stood in the afternoon warmth.

But something else was there as well.

Tucked back in the many islands of the confluence perched this white-winged dove (Zenaida asiatica).

Okay, let’s be honest: I scared up a litany of animals.  And I was on the opposite side of the creek!

Foraging in the crunchy, leaf- and twig-filled barren wasteland that is the winter ground, this dove became startled as I approached.  It then flitted into a tree where it felt safe watching me.

In turn, I felt bad for bothering it and walked away as quietly as I could.

A Carolina chickadee (Poecile carolinensis) perched in a tree (2008_12_24_002963)

Which was about three steps before something else caught my eye.

Leaping from branch to branch as it nibbled at winter fruit and seeds, this Carolina chickadee (Poecile carolinensis) paused only briefly.

Its afternoon was full, you see, what with the whole chasing down lunch in winter thing that was going on.

Kinglets, titmice, woodpeckers, doves and other birds filled the area with the business of being busy, yet something about this little conspicuous critter held my attention.

It never moved closer to the edge of the creek where I might have had a clearer view.

Nevertheless, I enjoyed watching it through a barrier of naked limbs from where I perched on the opposite side of the waterway.

But then I had that feeling of being watched.

Strange how that works, how we somehow know when eyes are fixed upon us.

And I knew there were eyes resting all over me, intent and unflinching eyes.

So I turned.

A northern mockingbird (Mimus polyglottos) perched in a tree (2008_12_24_002979)

I commented at Mary’s place recently about northern mockingbirds (Mimus polyglottos) being my always companions when I take walks.

No matter the weather, no matter the surroundings, no matter the time of day, it never fails that a member of this species will be nearby keeping close tabs on me.  Even when all other birds scatter and hide, a mockingbird will fly in close and land in a place where it can watch me.

It’s become a sort of game, at least on my part.  The challenge is to find the bird.

And I always find one.

This particular mockingbird chose a bright sunny branch dangling over the creek that gave it a clear view of my position.

To test its mettle, I walked intently back toward the lake.  It hopped a bit further out on the branch to keep me in sight.

So I turned and walked back the other way, back toward the floodplain and Dixon Branch.  Its eyes tracked me like a predator watching a meal.

I laughed and thanked it for keeping everyone safe from the dangerous man with the camera.

An eastern boxelder bug nymph (Boisea trivittata) on a common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) (2008_12_24_002990)

Walking at the creek’s edge toward the bridge that would let me cross to the floodplain, flashes of gold punctuated each step.  Common dandelions (Taraxacum officinale) stood upright and showy, some still flowers while others had gone to seed.

A bit of movement on one of them drew me in closer.

A nymph.  More specifically, a young eastern boxelder bug (Boisea trivittata).

With a telephoto zoom lens on the camera, macro photography was out of the question.  In fact, I had to back away a few steps to get the scene in focus.

Sometimes I wish I could carry the whole camera store with me when I go for walks.

A true bug and not just an insect, these little critters can form rather large colonies when food is abundant.  Just ask xocobra: He and his family had a massive group of them take up residence outside their front door.

I grinned as I left the child to its investigation of the dandelion.

A fox squirrel (Sciurus niger) in a tree holding a wad of black plastic in its mouth (2008_12_24_003001)

The sound of claws scampering on wood drew my eyes up to the treetops.

A fox squirrel (Sciurus niger) ran from limb to limb, jumping from tree to tree, then paused when it realized I was watching it.

From my perspective, I knew it carried something in its mouth and I wanted to know what it was.

A bit of zoom and a button click made it clear: a wad of black plastic.

Nesting material I bet.  Or at least hope.  Yet also a sign of our lack of care and management.  I’ve seen too much garbage harm too many creatures at this lake.

It always disappoints and angers me.

Seeing this little tree rat leaping about with this material made me hope it didn’t pose a threat later.

A fox squirrel (Sciurus niger) and an American crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos) foraging in winter grass (2008_12_24_003027)

I crossed the bridge and left the path as quickly as possible to escape the growing throng of people.  Who knew Christmas Eve was a major let’s-go-to-the-lake event?

Twigs and grass cracked and crackled beneath my feet as I walked onto the floodplain south of Dixon Branch.

Once I made it to the dry gulch that runs into the woods, I scared up a murder of crows perched in the trees above me.

Why crows are so skittish is beyond me.  They were so high up in the tree and I was still some distance from them, yet they panicked.

I followed their progress through the treetops and slowly turned until I saw another fox squirrel joining an American crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos) for a spot of afternoon foraging.

I was too far away for a good photo, so I walked slowly toward them with one eye looking through the viewfinder as I clicked and clicked.

As if I had leaped upon it from nearby, the crow suddenly took to the air and headed right for the trees.

I wasn’t even close enough to throw a stone at it, let alone pose a risk.

I tried capturing the escape even though I knew I was too far away.

What I captured was something else.

An American crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos) landing in a tree with a red-shouldered hawk (Buteo lineatus) hiding in the branches (2008_12_24_003034)

Telephoto lenses aren’t particularly good at wide landscape shots.  Still, this image tells a story.

In the upper-left corner is the crow landing in the trees.  That’s simple enough.

Let’s talk about perspective: The branch that runs from the crow’s position to the right side of the picture actually juts out quite some distance above the floodplain.  It’s a large, heavy branch.

Now follow that branch to the right side of the photo just about centered from top to bottom.

See a hint of red and brown perched amongst the branches?

A juvenile red-shouldered hawk (Buteo lineatus) sat in the tree in a place where it was perfectly camouflaged, a place that gave it a clear view of the birds and squirrels foraging in the open, a clear line of attack if only one of the animals would move far enough away from the thicket to give the hawk time.

I never realized the hawk was there as I walked toward the crows and squirrels.  In fact, it wasn’t until I was within about five yards/meters that the hawk finally saw me as a nuisance and left its perch.

It scared the heck out of me, took me completely by surprise.

The predator made a quick leap into the air and turned immediately into the dense woodlands.  Unlike its adult counterparts, it was still small enough to make a quick getaway through the branches, one replete with sharp turns and easy avoidance of the obstacles.

I wanted to kick myself for not seeing it sooner.

Uncomplicated things

Weeks have been long and rest hard to come by these past months.  Work continually robs me of all the time normally dedicated to chores, friends & family, finishing Dreamdarkers and delving into End of the Warm Season, reading, and otherwise doing things that don’t involve earning a paycheck.

It even steals precious moments away from The Kids, although I draw the line there and take back what is rightfully mine at every opportunity when it comes to these feline children.

Nevertheless, and despite the weather foiling every opportunity to get out and about recently, I find myself looking back again and again at precious moments seen through the eyes of a child discovering the world over and over with each walk and with each moment.

And so these uncomplicated things, common vistas ignored by far too many, serve to remind me that nature offers its best in ways we often fail to realize, let alone take notice of.

Fallen leaves in an assortment of colors and shapes (219_1928)

An assortment of autumn leaves set aside by the wind and painted by magic.  The trees surrounding my home deposit these tattered clothes every year; the winds of seasonal change scoop them up, whirl them into piles of bountiful beauty, and lay them to rest outside my garage door.  I beg of my neighbors not to interfere with this annual pilgrimage.  This tapestry is my guest and within its dying confines I myself discover renewal and rejuvenation.

A fallen tree near the shore of White Rock Lake (20080412_03309)

A tree fallen.  What noble life is felled this day at the shores of plentiful waters?  What ageless spirit vanishes into the cosmos as its eyes look back upon a body now lifeless?

A half-buried, half-submerged wall on the shore of White Rock Lake (20080614_06683)

Along the shores of White Rock Lake rest a myriad of remnants from when the reservoir was created, archaeological artifacts that even today cause one to stop and ponder, wonder what hands hewed these stones and built these walls, what structures lie at rest beneath these waters and grow increasingly hidden by nature’s unrelenting toils to reclaim the area.

A sailboat moored near the shore of White Rock Lake on a windy and cloudy day (20080628_08050)

A sailboat moored near the shore of White Rock Lake on a windy and cloudy day.  Pushed hither and yon by nature’s might, this escape found itself wrestling against the unremitting presence of the world’s breath.  Too close to the lake’s edges and too tossed by the rough surface, the boat ensured I remained entranced by a simple thing caught in the drama of simple things.

A common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) facing the sun (20080114_01294)

A common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) facing the sun.  What noble gold shines so brightly amongst the barren landscape of winter?  Few can so mightily unfurl their petals with splendor and strength amidst the cold, hard, skeletal hands of arctic menace.  Yet this small flower, the torment of many a landscaper, does so with a majesty that beckons our attention.  And how many stop to see?

A trail trhough the woodlands that leads from White Rock Lake to my home (20080419_03973)

This is the trail I take to and from my home when I visit White Rock Lake.  It leads down the hill and through the woodlands, and it takes me directly from where I live to the shores of this urban oasis.  And I find it just as glorious when the trees shed their foliage and offer up the bones of the world to a sky that never ends.

Views from my belly

Mary and I discussed in the comments once how sometimes we have to lie on the ground to get the kind of photograph we want.  Whether it be flowers or lizards or something else entirely, a great deal can be said for a prostrate approach.

Milling about on two legs and taking pictures of anything that seems worthwhile is a practice requiring little forethought.  Although I hardly think myself an artist, I have discovered that looking at things from a point of view contrary to our own lends itself to results that stand out from the pack.  Not only does such imagery offer something more appealing than the subject alone, but it also seems more natural, as though we could sneak in and watch the world unfold without interfering with it.

Another piece of the puzzle is stability.  When shooting hand-held, stabilizing the camera means putting as much foundation beneath it as is possible.  Snapping pictures during a walk is one thing; having time to really focus on the subject is something else entirely.  Lying on the ground means I’m not wobbling on tired legs, not shifting my weight back and forth, not swaying in the wind.

Photographing wildlife demands that we become as small as possible.  The smaller we appear to creatures great and small, the less of a threat we seem to be.  That means we can get closer or, as my experience has shown, that wildlife is willing to get closer to us.  Much closer in some cases.  Being relatively tiny and using small, slow movements has afforded me not just the opportunity to snap some presentable images, but it’s also given me the chance to enjoy many close encounters that can only be described as magical.

But perspective leaps to mind as the most important factor, at least in my case.  A great deal of nature photography oozes from a standing position, a view always looking down on the subject in a way that diminishes it, reduces its impact, hides the intricacies of its presentation.  This approach works fine for those spur-of-the-moment images captured when some fantastical creature is fleeting by without interest in stopping to pose.  But when the opportunity arises, I think the best results come from looking at things from their own level.

So with all that in mind, I want to share some experiences from an autumn walk not too long ago.  All of these capture nature from ground level.

American coots (Fulica americana) gathered on the bank of a creek (20081127_14864)

These American coots (Fulica americana) gathered on the bank, some preening, some standing about looking bored, and others grabbing a quick bite to eat from what few morsels could be found in the dormant grass.  A few times they looked at me with curiosity, but mostly they ignored me.

A rock dove (a.k.a. common pigeon; Columba livia) with highly unusual plumage coloration and patterns (20081127_14908)

Despite its highly unusual coloration, this beautiful rock dove (a.k.a. common pigeon; Columba livia) stayed with the dule as the entire group had breakfast and tried to avoid the rather unruly grackles.  In fact, the doves were so comfortable with my presence that, even standing, they walked right up to me, one of them even daring to walk across my foot.  This one especially caught my eye, however, for I had never before seen one with plumage like this.  Although rock doves often display a wide range of colors and patterns, most demonstrate the classic form.

A close-up of a rock dove (a.k.a. common pigeon; Columba livia) as it forages (20081127_14910)

And speaking of a more classic rock dove, this one walked right up to the camera at one point—so close that I couldn’t take a picture without switching to macro mode.  The charcoal color it shows usually comes through as a lighter gray in most of its kind, yet this morph is far more common than the (IMHO) one-of-a-kind bird in the previous photo.

A close-up of a common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) that has gone to seed (20081127_14945)

A world full of stars held high atop a thin arm.  The common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) has a bad reputation as the scourge of gardeners and groundskeepers around the globe.  Nevertheless, I think both the golden flower and the feathery seed head offer more than weeds; their beauty, in my mind, is unquestionable, and they also represent the single most recognizable set of memories stretching right through my childhood.  Who doesn’t remember holding one of these and blowing on it just to watch the seeds take flight?  What a simple act, sure, but I bet a right of passage for most kids.

A male great-tailed grackle (Quiscalus mexicanus) looking down his beak at me (20081127_15007)

Lying on the pier in Sunset Bay at White Rock Lake, I held the camera down near the water’s surface hoping I could somehow grab a bit of the magic happening all over the lake, from pelicans and cormorants to ducks and gulls.  That didn’t work out very well due to the wind blowing my hands about and the choppy waves threatening to splash water on the camera.  Yet as as I tried, this male great-tailed grackle (Quiscalus mexicanus) landed nearby and screamed.  A stone’s throw from where I was, he bellowed time and again, often doing so as he looked right at me.  Perhaps I was in his favorite spot.

(And check out the flattop on that bird!  It gives him an almost Frankenstein look, at least from that angle.)

A shimmering, very small white unidentified flower seen at White Rock Lake (20081127_15024)

I’ve yet to identify this tiny flower, but it and its kith and kin permeated every step I took.  So short that most stems held their flowers below the dry grass and so small that a single bloom disappeared completely beneath my fingertip, only in their vast numbers did they become apparent.  The ground shimmered as sunlight danced across their varied hues.  Some were brilliant white and others were varying shades from lavender to cyan.

A mourning dove (Zenaida macroura) glancing at me as it forages for food (20081127_15132)

My adoration for mourning doves (Zenaida macroura) is second only to that for the red-winged blackbird.  The soulful voice of these birds always stops me cold.  It’s the sweetest lamentation one can ever hear.  When I found several wandering beneath a canopy of trees as they rounded up something for breakfast, I had to stop and enjoy their company.  Several of them came quite near (within an arm’s length).  The blue jays were more skittish than these stunning creatures.

A female fox squirrel (Sciurus niger) sitting up on her haunches with her front paws crossed in front of her (20081127_15177)

“Pardon me, sir, but have you seen any acorns?”  Well, that’s what I thought this female fox squirrel (Sciurus niger) was asking when she stopped right in front of me, sat up, crossed her hands in a fretted manner, and looked right at me.  Realizing as a prey animal that squirrels see best to the sides and not in front of them, I knew she was watching me as I lay there snapping a few pictures of her.  Eventually she went on with her business, and so did I.

Insects of June

A brown-legged grass carrier (Isodontia auripes) scampering about in the dirt (20080601_05947)

I really wish that photo had turned out better than it did, for the brown-legged grass carrier (Isodontia auripes) is indeed a beautiful wasp.  Dark and iridescent, this indigo flyer is recognizable as the only member of its genus with the telltale brown legs.

It stood next to my foot when I snapped that picture, but it didn’t stay for long.  We regrettably found ourselves beneath a tree on a partly cloudy day, so I captured the image during the one opportunity I had to see it almost at rest.

A white checkered-skipper (Pyrgus albescens) slurping nectar from a common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) flower (20080601_05980)

This white checkered-skipper (Pyrgus albescens) spent a great deal of time flitting from flower to flower in search of nectar.  In this case, upon a common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale), the butterfly paused only momentarily for me to snap a photo, then off it went into the sky in search of more breakfast.

An elm sawfly larva (Cimbex americana) munching away on a leaf (20080601_05986)

The larvae of the elm sawfly (Cimbex americana), like all sawflies, looks much like the caterpillar of a moth or butterfly, but the adult is nothing short of a wasp’s cousin.  Despite visual similarities though, sawflies use their “stingers” as ovipositors rather than as weapons.  Still, given the size of this child, I’d hate to see the mother who gave birth to it.  She must be a formidable creature indeed.

A group of red imported fire ants (Solenopsis invicta) gathering at the edge of a mud puddle (20080601_06170)

In a photo, that to me is death on six legs.  Red imported fire ants (Solenopsis invicta) attack en masse.  The first sting releases a pheromone that causes the rest of them to swarm and assault anything that moves (movement spurs them to sting).

I found this small group at the end of a trail of ants winding its way through the grass.  They huddled together near the edge of a mud puddle, doing what I can’t say.  And I didn’t get close enough to look.  One fire ant sting would be bad enough given my heightened allergy to such things, but the very nature of these beasts ensures that it wouldn’t stop at just one.

A seven-spotted ladybird beetle (a.k.a. ladybug; Coccinella septempunctata) climbing through grass covered by cottonwood debris (20080601_06218)

Finally, this seven-spotted ladybird beetle (a.k.a. ladybug; Coccinella septempunctata) found itself trying to navigate a sea of cottonwood debris that covered the ground for some distance.  As it tried to hunt, it grew increasingly covered with the tree’s fibrous droppings.  I hadn’t the heart to tell it, at least relative to its size, that miles and miles of this summer snow surrounded it on all sides.  Only by taking to wing could it hope to escape.

[all photos taken June 1 at White Rock Lake]