the torch doth burn

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Margined soldier beetles (Chauliognathus marginatus)

Before the weather turns harsh, there seems to be a rush to mate, lay eggs and die. A scene fitting of Shakespeare, "Oh, happy dagger! This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die!"

Everywhere I looked the other day, margined soldier beetles seemed to be coupling, especially on the blooming white frostweed.

Was it tawdry of me to take photos?

Well, yes, it probably was since I'm now posting their intimate moment for the world to see. 

So, forget you saw this and move on but remember "This is the place; there, where the torch doth burn."

And with this, Juliet dies. But she laid no eggs.

 

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like a rich jewel

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"Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear; 

Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!"

Shakespeare's peeping-tomish Romeo was speaking of his fair Juliet as he watched her on her bedroom balcony, but he perhaps—could he not—have been waxing poetically over an indigo bunting?

As Juliet's glow stood out in the night, even from a great distance, the deep blue indigo stands out like a rich jewel. Perched high on its own balcony.

And you do not have to be a voyeur to see it, but it helps. 

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seed time?

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Samara.

Samara.

Samara.

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time.

In short, to paraphrase Shakespeare's Macbeth, time passes.

Without delay, Red maples are one of the very first plants to bloom every year in the South, even before the first day of spring.

And now, red maples are already producing fruit. Yes, callow fruit: long double samara with lovely chartreuse and pink wings that will, in a brief time, twirl to the ground like tiny organic helicopters.

And we'll be raking up the fall leaves before you can say "Out, out brief candle. Life's but a walking shadow."

And it all happens so fast.

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panache

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“Daffodils that come before the swallows dare and take the winds of March with beauty,” wrote William Shakespeare in his 1623 romantic comedy “The Winter’s Tale.” The Barb was correct: daffodils are defiant. Thank goodness!

This morning, it’s cool and crisp, 22 degrees. Although they are not native to the Tennessee Valley or any valley within 3,000 miles of where I now sit (More species are native to Spain than any other country), the daffodils I planted along the driveway are beginning to unfurl, bright and yellow. You have to admire their panache.

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