horse flies sucking nectar

horse flies sucking nectar 

from the prickly white balls

of Rattlesnake Master

Few flowers dare to bloom in this prolonged high heat and drought, but Rattlesnake Master is one of them. This odd member of the Carrot family looks more like some kind of desert plant with its long, strappy leaves and prickly balls of flowers. But it is actually a tallgrass prairie species with a deep root that helps protect it from drought, as well as an unusual flower arrangement adapted to heat and dry conditions. At the top of a long stalk, the plant divides into short stems ending in whitish green balls consisting of many small white flowers surrounded by prickly bracts. The flowers bloom in mid- to late summer and emit a strong honey-like scent in bright sunlight. Native Americans used the dry seedheads as rattles. Pioneers may have associated the rattle with rattlesnakes because they believed, erroneously, that the root could be used as an antidote for rattlesnake bite.
          Pollinators are equally hard-pressed to find nectar-bearing flowers, so it's not surprising that some of them are attracted to Rattlesnake Master. When I stop to watch some large, black insects crawling all over the white flower balls of a small patch of Rattlesnake Master, I am surprised that these pollinators are not Dark bees. Their fat black bristle-bottom bodies are unlike a bee's elongated body, and their broad face and large horizontal eyes do not look anything like a bee's heart-shaped face and angular eyes. With a start I recognize them -- Horse flies -- and I take a few steps back. From my past experience with Horse flies, they will bite painfully, usually on the back of the neck, and will suck blood. However, these Horse flies seem oblivious to my bare neck and arms, so I conclude that they are not the vampire females but rather the nectar- and pollen-feeding males. I step up for a few closeup photos and the docile males just continue busily sucking nectar.

The Deer Meadow

The locals think I’m crazy,

re-seeding by hand,

but no one will lend us a tractor

with a three-point hitch.

Machinery’s useless anyway

for wild grass seed tangled

with bits of stems, leaves and forb corollas

that clog the drill.

The week you lie paralyzed

on a white bed in a white curtained stall,

I pace the pasture you call

the deer meadow—

pioneering in reverse, shuttling across

the once tallgrass prairie,

scattering the russet seeds in an arc

for the coltish wind.

Potpourri of wine bronze gold gathered

at Big Creek and Redfeather,

with names like the poppling song

of the mockingbird—

Tahoka daisy, goldstem grass, dropseed,

turkey foot grass, bastard toadflax,

dame’s rocket, downy sunflower, hoary puccoon,

blanketflower, rocket larkspur.

No compass plant to guide me

through the maze of corridors,

no rattlesnake-master to vanquish

the tumor swallowing your spine.

Between bouts of rain,

poison ivy, thorns,

and the lopped off stalks of goldenrod,

I stride the scalp shorn field—

dragging fifty-pound bags of chopped hay,

each handful light as fuzzy hair,

clinging to the chaff, blanketing the beds

trampled by deer.

There is an intimacy in this slow spreading,

time to find a meadowlark nest

that survived the mower, its single speckled egg

unbroken.

Space to discover, beyond the chemical waste

of corn fields and hog lots,

below the wreck and rubble, a rhapsody

of chocolate hearts

pressed into the dark and yielding mud,

a duet of the delicate

cloven feet of the cinnamon doe

tap dancing at dawn.

In your deer meadow the wind-borne seed

will sprout from its safe

confining shell, raising a tender green

alleluia.

As I drop the last clinging seed

on the bare fallow ground,

your fluttering heart emerges

from a mantle of wildflowers.