During the off-seasons
I’ve
been landscaping my rented property with stone stairways and walled terraces.
For building materials I drive off on little collecting- expeditions. All the
rock is hand-picked and carefully loaded into my truck’s camper: jumbo-sized
granite cobbles out of Lone Pine Creek—tumbled smooth by Mt. Whitney’s runoff —and,
from the north end of the Alabama Hills, a type of metamorphosed granite that
fractures neatly into flat-sided slabs. (Perfect
stairsteps… some weigh more than me.) Yesterday
morning, kneeling in my sandy driveway, I was admiring one of the best finds
yet: a doormat-sized hunk of rock, five inches thick, that was standing on end
like a mock-tombstone. Perched on its smooth, sunlit face were two Robber Flies.
These are
“good guy” flies that we all see but
seldom notice. Swift-flying killers,
they pounce on resting insects or snatch them out of the air, then carry their
victims off to suck out the juice at leisure. Some types are large (for flies)—up
to more than an inch in length—and many species have the long, lean form so
common in predators, be they finned or feathered or furry. Robber Flies come in
black or shades of grey, may have a yellow-striped abdomen like bees or wasps, and
are often partially covered with fine, dense hair. I’ve noticed them sunning on
rocks or twigs for years, sometimes with prey clutched under their bellies, without
knowing more than these few facts.
I was squatting
a foot away from the motionless pair when they first caught my eye. One was
quite a bit larger. Then: the smaller fly strode purposefully up to the other and
with his two front legs…played her like a drum. I’m incorrigibly analytical and
this bizarre act called forth my scientific alter-ego. Knowing insects somewhat
I thought, The female is typically larger.…hmmm….
Their behavior had all the hallmarks of a courtship ritual, which follows this
Universal Formula: the male-whatever boldly approaches a female, who pretends to
be unaware of his presence, and he does something completely ludicrous. Looking
bored, she responds with hauty disdain. Or simply ignores him.
He stepped
back and they were still. Again he approached—his body at right angles to hers—and
she remained motionless while he beat another perfectly rhythmic, staccato
drum-roll. Her front legs were stout
and covered with short, dense hair; his were much more delicate and without the
fuzz. One of those legs’ tarsus (that
is, lowest leg section) was striking a point immediately behind where the antennae
arose from her head. His other fell upon her back, mid-thorax. This whole
performance was repeated a number of times with the drumming lasting several
seconds: he’d back up…pause for a few to catch his breath…then stride forward
and, with a grand flourish, rear up on tiptoes with front legs arched over her and
pound away. It was a striking caricature of an emotional pianist, glistening
with sweat, attacking the keys in melodramatic rapture at the climax of a
Beethoven Piano Sonata—a real showman. The female exhibited not a hint of notice. Those legs were a blur
but his touch so light there was no sign of impact upon her body, no sound. But
were she hollow and resonant, and my hearing much more acute, I’d have caught a
drumroll of lightning-speed that no human could match.
After a
half-dozen drummings he backed away and there was a sort of stillness amplified
by my spinning brain. The female took off but landed only two inches away. The
male followed, taking off a fraction of a second after, with an identical
flight: he landed in the same position and the exact same distance away from
her. A pause. Then a repeat flight. This
I could hear—some special wing-buzz—and it also had a rhythmic quality. She’d
fly and land, he’d follow an instant later. Pause…then motion. “Zzzzt-Zzzzt…Zzzzt-Zzzzt.”
Another universal pattern of courtship: the girl runs (but not too far!) and the boy follows, blind to
all else. A few of these short, mirrored, hopper-flights. Then a standard three
second pause before he’d revert to drumming his prospective mate. But when I
shifted from my cramped position they flew away and the show was all over, leaving
me there in that morning sunlight, drenched in grace and delight. Hoo! I’ll never get to see THAT again....Wow!
There’s this short, bare-bones sentence in a book by Joseph Wood Krutch that captures
the essence of what bugs do: “Entomology is one long tale of marvels.” He
wasn’t kidding…bugs do the darnedest things.
I’ve written so
many of these two-page nature-sketches. They’re all about the same; some folks
enjoy them, others aren’t so enthusiastic. After all—there’s no pithy moral; no
plot, no conflict with resolution. These are just intimate, detailed
descriptions of the semi-miracles I’ve been lucky enough to witness simply by being
in the right place at the right time and paying attention. I share them because
of the impact they have on me: I’m just “out there walkin’ around” when my
attention is suddenly caught by a movement. I latch on, focus down, and
observe. One of my notable roles seems to be that of the Un-dispassionate Observer. A paradox: as a witness I’m coldly
rational and detached but, at the same time, an intensely and emotionally
involved participant. Contradictory, yes, but…so am I made. Our world is vast, infinitely
complex, mysterious, and full of delightful surprises. Seeing The Dance of the
Robber Flies had its predictable effect on me: it catalyzed a vivid
hyper-perception of the magnificence of our world—the world I get to live in!—and the under-appreciated significance of the fact that we
are all here together in the first place. I have no answers—never had any, never
will—but I dearly enjoy watching, seeing…and wondering.
5 Nov 1999, 13 Jan 2013
© 2013 Tim
Forsell
All
rights reserved.
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