"Let's be careful out there"

I was drawn to her, as she to the flower.
A Spring Azure the size of a dime, sipping slowly from Boneset in the field of goldenrod. Another of the Gossamer-winged, another Blue, in a rare moment of rest.


I inched the camera slowly forward, catching a picture every several inches until I was almost on top of her. Marveling at her fine features magnified by my lens—the coal black eyes, white-feathered legs, banded antennae…how perfectly lovely on one so small.

Abruptly, her wings flew open and it seemed she lunged forward, further into the flower from which she’d been feeding.
Then fluttered strongly, the dusty blues in reverse.


She’d been caught—in that instant. The powerful mantis-like front legs of an even smaller Ambush Bug held her firmly, while the toxin from its mouth acted fast.

I hadn’t seen her hiding within the white bloom--her light green forelegs the color of plant stems, orange eyes upon a cryptic face, so flower-like. As she waited, poised to snatch a visitor to her flower.

Within seconds both were still.
The open wings of gossamer blue, quiet.

I returned to the field the next morning.
On the leaf below, were 4 blue wings.

Ambush Bugs, Phymata sp., mating pair

click photos to enlarge
(do you see the Ambush Bug waiting in the first photo?)

A love affair with blue butterflies

The rumbling of thunder shakes the ground.
A badly needed rain is upon us.
Through the window, the trees sway— heavy leaves waving graceful arcs against the white sky.
Beyond them, the field of butterflies.


I pull a book from my shelf, a favorite from years ago, perhaps when it all began.
Of blue butterflies scattered across spatter-painted pages.
And rain, again.





I followed one yesterday, an Eastern Tailed Blue, until it came to rest on a low leaf in the field of goldenrod. Her gossamer wings and dainty tail shone bright in the evening sun.

How I love the blues of summer.
The tender flowers that hide from the heat of the day in shades so inviting and cool.

And the blues of the butterflies—caught for a rare moment, then held coyly behind folded wings.
As pieces of sky, to earth fallen.




Still the question lingers from the painted page before me, so simple, yet long lasting.
"Where does the butterfly go when it rains?"



From Wikipedia:

The Lycaenidae are the second-largest family of butterflies, whose members are also called gossamer-winged butterflies. They constitute about 40% of the known butterfly species. The family is traditionally divided into the subfamilies of the blues, the coppers , the hairstreaks and the harvesters.

Where does the butterfly go when it rains by May Garelick, illus. Leonard Weisgard, Young Scott Books, New York, 1961.