Tag Archives: western honey bee (Apis mellifera)

The slowly opened

A song whispers on cool air with the perfume of a thousand blossoms.  Lavender and gold and crimson and white intertwine with a rainbow infinitely diverse.  They paint meadow and field in the colors of spring.

A spotted cucumber beetle (Diabrotica undecimpunctata) perched on the edge of rough gumweed (Grindelia scabra) (20080921_12634)

Each petal reaches, each rising star shines grand and new.  These bright lives climb from realms I have never traveled but which are known to me.  And they seek the sky with faces upturned.

A black and gold bumble bee (Bombus auricomus) licking tiny droplets of dew from the blossom of purple bindweed (a.k.a. cotton morning glory; Ipomoea trichocarpa) (20080921_12798)

Just as the slowly opened rise from earthen slumber, so too does an army of faithful who find in the coming warmth a dance that steps only to the music of flowers.

Syrphid flies (a.k.a. hover flies; Toxomerus marginatus) mating atop a common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) (2009_03_08_012853)

It is a love story, this song, one of powerful longings and intimate embraces.  It likewise is a chorus of endings, an operatic aria that each voice must sing only in its season.

A western honey bee (a.k.a. European honey bee; Apis mellifera) on white clover (Trifolium repens) (2009_03_21_013732)

The kaleidoscope of winter’s gray falls before the advance of these voices now filling the heavens, and russet is washed away by waves of verdant song.

A Gulf fritillary (a.k.a. passion butterfly; Agraulis vanillae) with its tongue out as it flies toward western ironweed (a.k.a. Baldwin’s ironweed; Verbesina baldwinii) (2009_07_09_026290)

With each new voice, a cacophony of dancers shakes the ground with spirited waltzes and lively tangos, for every singer demands a select audience, a diverse group of listeners who perform at the behest of their favorite soloist.

A Gulf fritillary (a.k.a. passion butterfly; Agraulis vanillae) feeding on western ironweed (a.k.a. Baldwin’s ironweed; Verbesina baldwinii) (2009_07_09_026298)

I find the silence of this song deafening, the loudest music I will never hear.

A large milkweed bug (Oncopeltus fasciatus) resting atop green antelopehorn (a.k.a. green milkweed, spider milkweed or antelope-horn milkweed; Asclepias viridis) (20080921_12670)

For now comes the time of the slowly opened and those who must needs be with them.  In all my years I have never tired of this presentation.  And in all my years, I watch for their voices and listen for the dance it portends.

— — — — — — — — — —

Photos (all from White Rock Lake):

[1] A spotted cucumber beetle (Diabrotica undecimpunctata) on an unidentified bloom.  The compound flower remains a mystery to me.  But I’m not the only Texan wondering what this plant is (e.g., here).  Introduced?  So easy to identify that it’s left out of all the guides we have access to?  It’s a unique plant and a unique blossom, so it’s not like I’m mistaking it for something else.  Well, I’ve said before that flowers vex me more than any other kind of life.  Hence this one goes on the diabolical challenge pile for later identification.  (And it’s probably something so evident and so common that I’ll kick myself for not recognizing it.)  [Update: I have since identified the flower as rough gumweed (Grindelia scabra).]

[2] A black and gold bumble bee (Bombus auricomus) licking dew from the blossom of purple bindweed (a.k.a. cotton morning glory; Ipomoea trichocarpa).  I’d watched the bee flit from bloom to bloom where it slipped inside for a sip of nectar and a spot of pollen.  It then paused on this flower for a few minutes.  Only when I approached did I realize it was licking tiny droplets of dew from the flower.

[3] Syrphid flies (a.k.a. hover flies; Toxomerus marginatus) mating atop a common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale).

[4] Western honey bee (a.k.a. European honey bee; Apis mellifera) visiting white clover (Trifolium repens).

[5] Gulf fritillary (a.k.a. passion butterfly; Agraulis vanillae) with its tongue hanging out as it approaches western ironweed (a.k.a. Baldwin’s ironweed; Verbesina baldwinii).

[6] The same Gulf fritillary (a.k.a. passion butterfly; Agraulis vanillae) feeding hungrily after landing on the western ironweed (a.k.a. Baldwin’s ironweed; Verbesina baldwinii).

[7] A large milkweed bug (Oncopeltus fasciatus) standing atop green antelopehorn (a.k.a. green milkweed, spider milkweed or antelope-horn milkweed; Asclepias viridis).

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).

Stingers

Given how quickly I can kick the bucket from just one sting given by an ant or wasp, or a bee, let alone more than one of any of these, it leads me to think I have a mental incapacitation that prohibits me from seeing the dangers right in front of me as I stand there trying to snap photos of these creatures.

A mason wasp (Pseudodynerus quadrisectus), the very species whose lone member attempted to invade the carpenter bee nest outside my patio.  That individual undoubtedly was looking for a place to start a home and family as they nest in places similar to that of carpenter bees.

A mason wasp (Pseudodynerus quadrisectus) pausing briefly on wet sand (20080601_05996)

A different kind of mason wasp (Monobia quadridens) enjoying a bit to eat from this wild carrot bloom (a.k.a. bishop’s lace or Queen Anne’s lace; Daucus carota).

A mason wasp (Monobia quadridens) enjoying a bit to eat from a wild carrot bloom (a.k.a. bishop's lace or Queen Anne's lace; Daucus carota) (20080422_04441)

A metallic sweat bee (Augochloropsis metallica)[1] who chanced into the purview of my camera even before I realized it had landed on the Engelmann daisy (Engelmannia pinnatifida) I was photographing from some distance away.

A metallic sweat bee (Augochloropsis metallica) digging around in an Engelmann daisy (Engelmannia pinnatifida) (20080422_04399)

Small and stunning, it remained on that flower only briefly.

A metallic sweat bee (Augochloropsis metallica) digging around in an Engelmann daisy (Engelmannia pinnatifida) (20080422_04400)

The ubiquitous western honey bee (a.k.a. European honey bee; Apis mellifera) also enjoying some wild carrot.

A western honey bee (a.k.a. European honey bee; Apis mellifera) enjoying some wild carrot bloom (a.k.a. bishop’s lace or Queen Anne’s lace; Daucus carota) (20080518_05555)

A cuckoo wasp (Chrysis coerulans)[2].  It parasitizes the nests of the common potter wasp (a.k.a. dirt dauber; Eumenes fraternus).  The potter wasp never built more pots and never returned, undoubtedly because the cuckoo wasp had already discovered the burgeoning nest.

A cuckoo wasp (Chrysis coerulans) parasitizing the nest of a common potter wasp (a.k.a. dirt dauber; Eumenes fraternus) on my patio (20080526_05834)

A sweat bee (Halictus farinosus) covered with pollen as it scrounges around the bloom of a musk thistle (a.k.a. nodding thistle; Carduus nutans).

A sweat bee (Halictus farinosus) covered with pollen as it scrounges around the bloom of a musk thistle (a.k.a. nodding thistle; Carduus nutans) (20080601_06091)

And finally, my favorite: a male cicada-killer wasp (Sphecius speciosus) perched on the edge of the sidewalk leading from my front door.[3]  Although technically he has a false stinger that is nothing more dangerous than a sex organ, it’s an impressive stinger nonetheless (albeit much smaller than the real stinger his female counterparts wield).

A male cicada-killer wasp (Sphecius speciosus) perched on the edge of the sidewalk leading from my front door (20080609_06323)

Let me finish with this:

As I knelt in the dirt and leaned in close to capture this image, my father asked, “What are you doing?”

“Taking a picture of this katydid,” I responded, then I added, “I absolutely love insects!”

“I know,” he remarked.

Most of my love of insects comes from my mother.  She lacks the usual fear of them and taught us kids—or at least me—to appreciate their diversity, their beauty, their lives.

Mud daubers dance around her ankles at the family farm (they nest under one set of outside steps), yet she barely notices, doesn’t flinch, assures others they’re not a danger.  She catches grasshoppers and katydids and other goodies to feed to the chickens (a treat the fowl thoroughly enjoy!).  When a massive dragonfly perches atop a fence post, she gets in close until she’s able to pet it—Yes!  Pet it, I said!—and she’s tickled pink at the opportunity to share that kind of moment with something too many fear.  Like me, she grabs her camera and gets in close to photograph the marvelous diversity and exquisite displays these creatures offer—a treat the family farm amplifies with its location in the middle of the Piney Woods of East Texas.

When the central light pole at the family farm comes alive with a skin of giant moths, she’s there to witness the event and appreciate its majesty.  When massive yellow garden spiders build webs and egg sacks a few steps outside the door, she watches with the enjoyment of a tourist on safari.  When cicadas recklessly crash into her or assassin bugs prance across the table where she’s working or a caterpillar inches its way around her feet, she stops to take notice and displays the truest, most profound spirit of a naturalist: “Would you look at that!  I wonder what that is…”

Thank you, Mom.

— — — — — — — — — —

[1] I originally thought this might be an orchid bee.  Only one has ever been seen in Texas, however, so it seemed far more likely to be a metallic sweat bee.  The photos don’t make identification simple as I wasn’t trying to take a picture of the insect (I barely realized it was there before it was gone); nevertheless, it seems more likely to be a sweat bee than the rarer tropical species.

[2] Most cuckoo wasp species are too similar to identify from such a poor photo (taken from across the patio with the camera on the wrong settings as I barely realized the wasp was there before it vanished; I swung around, snapped two pictures [the second of which was even worse], then it was gone…).  Despite that, the dark wings and its incessant visits to the potter wasp nest—then and later—makes it clear which species this is.  I also believe I might have additional photos of this species from an unfortunate individual who made it inside the house…and didn’t live to tell about it due to feline predators who found the darting prey and relentlessly pursued and attacked it.

[3] I continue to fight with my neighbors about these wasps.  If this is to be my last year in the middle of this enormous colony, the last summer during which I might enjoy the brief appearance of these giants, then let it be a year without interference, a year without the deadly machinations of uninformed humans bent on destroying that which they do not understand (and we all know people fear what they do not understand…).

Then along came a bee

Showy evening primrose (Oenothera speciosa).  A delightful flower, at least by my standards.  Notwithstanding my love for things purple, of course.

Showy evening primrose (Oenothera speciosa) growing along Dixon Branch at White Rock Lake (20080412_03155)

Difficult to photograph sometimes.  Why?  This particular plant is quite fond of fresh water; it therefore clings to edifices near sources that can give it what it loves.

I find it along the banks of creeks and tributaries, holding fast to positions at the edge of swamps, and especially where I live, rooted on the shores of lakes (in my case, White Rock Lake).

Daring and agile, it places me in the position of fighting the landscape to get respectable photographs.  But I’m no slouch when it comes to getting down and dirty to take a closer look at something.

I knelt in mud and dirt and wet grass as I crawled along the banks of Dixon Branch trying to appreciate and capture these marvelous beauties.

A close-up of a showy evening primrose (Oenothera speciosa) (20080412_03158)

Then along came a bee.

Covered in pollen, the western honey bee (a.k.a. European honey bee; Apis mellifera) flitted about right in front of me as we both determined how much of a threat the other posed.  To me, it seemed far more dangerous than I would ever be to it, yet I appreciated its weary approach.  Most humans would shoo it away, if not kill it outright.

Not me, though.

A western honey bee (a.k.a. European honey bee; Apis mellifera) inspecting the back of a showy evening primrose (Oenothera speciosa) (20080412_03272_b)

My first thought, at least at that specific moment, was “You’re doing it all wrong!  Shouldn’t you hunt for pollen on the other side of the flower?”  I felt that would be the approach most likely to succeed.

Eventually the bee figured out the error of its landing and righted the wrong.

A western honey bee (a.k.a. European honey bee; Apis mellifera) at the heart of a showy evening primrose (Oenothera speciosa) as it looks for pollen (20080412_03273_b)

I trundled on hands and knees trying to follow it, trying to capture that perfect moment of bee and pollen and flower.

It surely felt I wrongfully intruded, if not presented a rather selfish invasion of its privacy.  It tolerated me anyway, not flinching when I bumped the flower it occupied.

We’re not taking it anymore

Before we received a double-whammy of snow last week with two significant storms, it appeared on March 1 that spring had not only gotten its foot in the door, but that it had shoved its way into the room and intended to kick winter out with much fervor.

In response to the warmth, White Rock Lake brought to light its magnificent insect collection.  They came out in force, as though the whole of the population unanimously declared “We’re not taking it anymore!” in response to winter’s attempts to stick around.

Bear in mind a large number of wasps occupied the area.  Ants and wasps concern me more than bees, for the latter are generally docile unless protecting a hive with honey and/or young, or when directly provoked.  On the other hand, the former two bring with them an air of unpredictability and dour temperament that lead me to exercise respectful caution while in their midst.

I point that out because, given the acute nature of my allergy to their stings (ants and wasps especially), I was forced to keep my distance when photographing many of these insects.  It’s not that I’m unwilling to let them near me; it’s just that I have no interest in pushing my luck when it seems entirely unnecessary.  Hospitalization is something I try to avoid…

I strolled along the floodplain adjacent to Dixon Branch.  The large swathe of land had miraculously given birth—almost overnight—to a field of wildflowers.  Some I recognized and some I didn’t, but even from a distance I could see the area was abuzz with insects of all shapes, sizes, and colors.

A spotted cucumber beetles (Diabrotica undecimpunctata) on top of a common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) (20080301_02410)

Nearly every common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) I saw had one of these little green beetles on or near it.  Ubiquitous fails to describe their collective presence.  Any flower devoid of their telltale spots soon trumpeted the arrival of a visitor either flitting in from another flower or crawling out from under the petals.

Only later did I identify them as spotted cucumber beetles (Diabrotica undecimpunctata).  The specific subspecies still eludes me, though, yet I continue my efforts to learn that information.

A western honey bee (a.k.a. European honey bee; Apis mellifera) hunting for pollen on a common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) (20080301_02412)

Almost as numerous as the beetles, western honey bees (a.k.a. European honey bees; Apis mellifera) filled the air with buzzing, a fog of busy wings collecting pollen and scurrying about the order of the day: prepare the hive for this season’s brood.

Again, I have not identified the exact subspecies of the bees.  It’s quite possible I photographed more than one; it’s equally plausible that they are all the same.  More work is needed to pin down an exact identification.

A western honey bee (a.k.a. European honey bee; Apis mellifera) and a spotted cucumber beetle (Diabrotica undecimpunctata) sharing a single common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) (20080301_02420)

On a day when so much activity takes place, traffic jams are abundant.  More than once I witnessed a bee or wasp landing on an already occupied flower.  In this case, the honey bee barged in on the cucumber beetle’s territory.

Neither seemed to mind the other too much.  Well, except when the beetle found itself trampled underfoot by the bee.  Only then did it hurry out of the way of the much larger insect.  Aside from those fender benders (which bothered the beetles more than they did the bees), these insects went about their business without too much involvement with each other, and at no time did a scuffle break out after a collision.

An unidentified crane fly perched on a leaf behind a dandelion bloom (20080301_02424)

This photo surprised me because I never saw the fly behind the dandelion until I processed the images later.  Perfectly camouflaged amongst the brown winter grass, it remained perfectly still as I invaded its personal space.  My intent?  To photograph another insect on the flower.  The result?  The camera actually focused beyond the petals and found what I did not see.

While I can’t be sure of the species at this time, I believe this is a crane fly of some sort.  I need to look more closely at the picture (the only one I have of this critter) to see if I can come up with a final determination as to its classification.  (See update at the end of this post.)

A close-up of a spotted cucumber beetle (Diabrotica undecimpunctata) on top of a common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) (20080301_02428)

Most of the cucumber beetles fled the moment I encroached upon their territory (meaning whatever flower upon which they had staked a claim).  Sometimes they skirted the open petals and hid beneath the bloom; sometimes they hurried off the pollen machine and disappeared into the grass; and sometimes they took flight and vanished amidst a writhing sea of insects flying throughout the area.

This one did none of those things.  Despite my proximity to it, not once did it flinch, even when I accidentally bumped the flower with the camera lens.  It treated me with disinterest at best.  I appreciated that as it gave me a chance to get some better photos.

A close-up of a seven-spotted ladybird beetle (Coccinella septempunctata) as it climbs up a blade of grass (20080301_02444)

While I knelt in the grass peering at that bug, I realized the ground beneath me teemed with life I had yet to notice.  A variety of lady beetles (a.k.a. ladybugs or ladybird beetles) carried on with their spring affairs in a jungle no higher than my ankles.  A whole other world existed down there, one hidden from those who failed to stop and look.

That seven-spotted ladybird beetle (Coccinella septempunctata) gave me quite a bit of exercise as I chased it about trying to get at least one presentable image.  But these insects were busy and had no time for my shenanigans.  They appeared and disappeared in a flurry of comings and goings, and taking photographs of them proved difficult as they never sat still.  At all.

Why?

A mating pair of convergent ladybird beetles (Hippodamia convergens) perched on a blade of St. Augustine grass (a.k.a. carpetgrass; Stenotaphrum secundatum) (20080301_02446)

Did I mention they were busy?  Yes, busy looking for mates and doing what comes next.  While I do apologize to the younger members of our audience for the unexpected insect porn, seeing this mating pair of convergent ladybird beetles (Hippodamia convergens) demonstrates why they had no time to stop and pose for my camera.  If indeed spring had sprung, their focus seemed clear: procreate at all costs.

Oh, they never stopped moving even when caught in such compromising positions.  The larger female dragged the pair up and down, over and under, and every which way she could, so even the business of being busy didn’t stop them from playing hard to get—photographically speaking.

Another interesting thing about that image—other than the insects being out of focus—is the scale made evident by the dandelion seed at which the camera actually took aim.  It dangled from a small blade of grass above and behind the beetles.  Despite that, it appears gigantic compared to them.  Compared to both of them combined even.

And finally, note that both are being held up by a single blade of St. Augustine grass (a.k.a. carpetgrass; Stenotaphrum secundatum).  You really must appreciate how small these insects are despite their enormous usefulness in controlling other pests.

[Update] The insect in the fourth photo is actually a stilt bug from the family Berytidae.  The precise species escapes me for now.