Down by the brook,
in a place I’ve determined is the Secret Garden,
Daddy Longlegs, aka Harvestmen, do roam.
Those who are diurnal in nature, dehydrate easily.
Detecting light intensity with two eyes, they don’t see images, but rather rely upon other senses to locate prey.
Distinguished by black antennae banded with white, an ichnuemon wasp hunted below a Royal Fern that offered contrasting colors.
Flying and landing, flying and landing, was a tiny dragonfly known locally as an Autumn Meadowhawk, so denoted by its legs of brown.
And dangling below a goldenrod, an assassin bug searching for a meal.
Another dangler was the discarded exuviae of a Dog-day Cicada, who’s buzzy love song filled the daylight hours.
Before I left the garden, I noted one more harvestman on the downward side of Pearly Everlasting.
Filled with insects and spiders as any garden should be, the secret one was brought to us by the letter D as defined by a curled fern frond.