I said before that “I focus on in situ nature photos—things in their original locations and states rather than posed or captive.”  While the latter variety of images can be stunning and entrancing, they simply don’t represent my personal view of nature photography, at least with regards to my own photos since I’m not a tyrannical purist when it comes to the photography of others.

Despite and because of this proclivity of mine, I won’t—wouldn’t dream of—controlling what wildlife does on its own.  Just a few days ago a large dragonfly landed on my chest and stared at me eye to eye.  It would have made a great photo had the encounter lasted more than a few seconds, long enough for me to frighten it away by moving.

But that recent event reminded me of another close encounter, this one from March.  It involved an early morning, a male Polyphemus moth (Antheraea polyphemus), and a collision.

Because the family farm is located deep in the Piney Woods of East Texas, insect life is more prominent than was the case in Dallas.  It’s not unusual to run across a large variety of insects throughout the day.  Mornings often provide a veritable laundry list of beetles, moths, katydids, and other nocturnal creatures looking for a place to sleep away the day.

After finishing chores—feeding animals and the like—I grabbed my camera and spent some time roaming about searching for goodies.  And while I focused on several moths loitering on my car, something hit my arm.  Something big.  Something that clung to me after the impact.

With a wingspan of at least six inches/15 centimeters, the large male Polyphemus moth was a welcome visitor, even if he chose to hold fast to my arm in a position that made photographing him rather difficult.  Holding the camera with one hand and without seeing the viewfinder, I happily clicked away hoping at least one or two photos would turn out presentable.

All the while the beautiful insect shifted its legs only insofar as was necessary to maintain its perch.  My odd positions trying to photograph it caused more than a few jostles, thus he had to respond by solidifying his hold each time I almost knocked him loose.

When the sun made a brief appearance on an otherwise cloudy morning, I snapped a few pictures of what gave the moth its name: the eyespots on its hindwings, most visible on the dorsal side.  Polyphemus was a Cyclops in Greek mythology, Poseidon’s one-eyed giant son.

Increasing numbers of parisitoids have decreased the number of Polyphemus moths, as have omnivorous and insectivorous mammals.  Of course, ecological changes by humans have likewise impacted their numbers.  It seems a crime for such a beautiful moth to be endangered, yet the fact makes our encounter all the more captivating, for the drop in their population has been quite evident here at the family farm these past many years.  Where once they were numerous, now they are surprise visitors, usually only a dozen or so seen throughout the year instead of the hundred or more seen just a decade ago.

Though I prefer photographing nature in a… well, in a natural setting, I felt no shame taking pictures of this moth as it clung to my arm.  The close encounter brightened an otherwise dreary morning, and technically the moth was in situ when I took the pictures.

Although I had originally planned to share these photos at a later time, I became so enamored of them that I could no longer wait.  Call it premature posting…  Yep, I’m guilty.

When first I arrived at the family farm yesterday morning, one of the immediate things I saw was a collection of giant moths hanging around the central light pole in the main yard.  It’s not unusual to see these large insects loitering there.  In fact, nightfall often brings with it a virtual plague of Luna moths (Actias luna) that covers the pole from top to bottom, a recurring event which makes the entire structure look like one massive writhing organism of fluttering wings.  It’s a stunning visual simply due to the unbelievable number of the creatures that horde together in that one place at one time.

And although I did see some Luna moths while I was there, it was not that particular species which so quickly grabbed my attention.  The winged beasts I saw first are even larger, and I believe them to be even more beautiful.

Here’s an example of what I’m talking about.

That is a male Polyphemus moth (Antheraea polyphemus), one of the giant silk moth species.  Its wingspan reaches 6 inches (15 centimeters).  This particular specimen was about that large and easily covered the whole of my hand.

I cannot stress enough how spectacular these winged insects are when viewed up close.  For that matter, they’re quite enchanting when viewed from a distance because their size lends itself to easy appreciation from almost any range.  Yet to be near them and see the wonderful detail and colors melded together on something that seems frail and gigantic at the same time is to behold one of nature’s dazzling displays.  Take this close-up as an example.

What exquisite magnificence they present.  What marvelous artwork they are.

Some part of me felt as though I shared something with the first mind to imagine a dragon, to see from the inside what it might be like to stand before a creature of myth and magic capable of bridging the gap between humanity’s appreciation of creativity and nature’s ability to outdo us every single time.  Very much unlike that first primitive soul to think of fire-breathing reptiles, however, I didn’t need to visualize some impossible monster in order to see the universe’s own fantastic fancy.  I needed only to look at what rested before my eyes.

And here’s a closer shot from that last photo showing the plumed antennae indicating this was indeed a male of the species.

Unfortunately for him, the male lay on the ground because his life ebbed from his body.  You see, they congregated around the light pole to mate, after which the males fluttered away weakly so that they might die while the females remained behind to deposit the hope of future generations in those places where they might be safe.  The women folk then likewise took leave of their young so that they too might go and breathe their last, a gasp or two coming so soon after the children of tomorrow had been given their best chance.

Some of those females could still be found on the pole.  One such lass had hidden away in the shadow of an electrical box where she remained unseen from all but the most prying eyes.  Like mine.

One might wonder why they stayed there after their carnal rendezvous had ended.  That question has a simple answer: to complete what they had started.

I found one such female on another side of the light where she had become weak and almost lifeless.  Her intention kept her going, though.  Until her business had been completed, I doubted she would let go of the pole and allow her body to fall listlessly to the ground below.

What you see attached to the pole beneath her abdomen is the fruit of her labors and her mate’s giving of his last moments to ensure the longevity of their kind.  Soon after she completed her final task, her body fell lifeless to the grass and added to the growing collection of moth wings and bodies littering the ground.  She had given her all for a generation she would never know and never see.  All her hopes rested in those tiny inconspicuous dots left clinging to a simple light pole.