Dragonfly

Here is a poem from my younger brother Robert DeStefano, a retired science teacher who will never retire as a committed naturalist. This poem is from his most recent collection of poetry about the flora and fauna of the pond behind his cabin in the Berkshires. Entitled A Nobody it is currently available on Amazon. His explanation appears below the poem.

A

dragonfly

landed on my 

shoulder

neither of us

frightened

by its 

impetuosity

for

we share an

extreme natural

curiosity

I

stood motionless

as

this magnificent creature

examined me

with two enormous compound eyes

I

 stood in

awe

for

this 300-million-year survivor

made me feel

 so insignificant

I

know this 

resilient

species will easily

outlive

me

a

Homo sapiens

merely

300,000 years old

###

Yes, it’s true, dragonflies often land on me. The first time, I admit, I was a little nervous even though I knew that dragonflies do not sting or bite like wasps. The dragonfly sat on my shoulder and appeared to be examining me with its large compound eyes. I have had many encounters with dragonflies and have learned a great deal about them over the 20 years of watching them near the pond by the log cabin. Sometimes a group of over 50 seems to appear out of nowhere. I once encountered such a group resting on the dock and rowboat. When I arrived, they all focused their eyes on me, and some took turns landing on me. I have noticed that different species of adult dragonflies emerge at different times of the year, with the earliest being the Spring Darners and the latest being the Pondhawks. The pond temperature and individual food preferences are reasons that explain different timing of a species’ emergence. Dragonflies feed voraciously on flying insects such as mayflies and mosquitoes. A single adult will easily eat over 100 mosquitoes daily. I have watched dragonflies gather in a large group and fly in a circular pattern, herding flying insects into a smaller and smaller area. To me, this behavior mimics killer whales, who often hunt in groups and use teamwork to force seals closer together and make them easier to capture and kill.

Dragonflies reproduce by incomplete metamorphosis in that there is an egg, a nymph, and an adult rather than the complete metamorphosis where a butterfly begins as an egg, then a caterpillar, a pupa (chrysalis), and then an adult. A female and male dragonfly will join as the male grasps the female’s head with claspers on his abdomen. The female curls her abdomen to meet the male’s genitalia, forming with him a heart shape. The male then uses a special appendage on its penis to scoop out sperm from the female spermatheca of a previous male. The male then deposits his own sperm. The female usually mates with several males but only uses the sperm from the last male to fertilize her eggs. The fertilized eggs are deposited in water and attach to submerged vegetation. The eggs develop into ferocious nymphs known as a naiads that feed on aquatic organisms. Depending on the species of dragonfly, the nymphs will molt many times over a period of several years until the time comes for them to crawl out of water, attach to a plant stalk, and magically transform into a dragonfly. It begins its final molt as fluid pumps into its body and newly formed wings, which harden as it prepares to fly. The adult dragonflies will hunt and eventually attempt to reproduce but survive for about six months before dying.

Dragonflies evolved about 300 million years ago and were among the first flying insects, quickly becoming predators on newly evolved flying insects such as flies. Prehistoric dragonflies about 250 to 300 million years ago were huge, with a 2.5-foot wingspan. There were much higher levels of oxygen in the Earth’s atmosphere at that time, allowing insects and other animals, such as dinosaurs, to grow extremely large.

The dragonfly is featured in one of the stories about St. George, the dragonslayer. In Romanian mythology, St. George kills a dragon who had been terrorizing a village. The devil sees St. George kill the dragon and becomes envious of St. George’s magnificent horse. The devil transformed the horse into a dragonfly or devil’s horse. The Romanian word for devil is drac, also meaning dragon. Sometime during the crusades, George, who was a soldier, was captured and tortured because he was a Christian. He was eventually martyred by being beheaded. England eventually made St. George their patron saint. England’s flag is derived from St. George’s cross, which is a symbol of military strength and honor.

###

A Winter's Walk

Now that we are in the midst of winter, it seems appropriate to post another poem by my younger brother Robert DeStefano, a retired high school science teacher and a lifelong naturalist who has published a number of his poems and other writings on Amazon. I append his explanation.

A Winter’s Walk

 

up

 before sunrise

like 

a child on Christmas Eve

anxiously

waiting to see

what awaits

me

owls are still

 hooting

hoping to scare a mouse

out of hiding

light rays appear

and

reveal most trees 

have shed their

 leaves

except for

beech trees leaves 

that will

hang on until

spring

I

begin my walk

light illuminates

the green feather-like fronds

of

the Christmas Fern

winter is the time for

this evergreen

to show off its beauty

as all around

 it is

brown

hoar frost glistens

on 

delicate evergreen pine tree needles

they 

defy the

 cold

sway in the

 wind

and

 perfume

 the frigid air

a giant sycamore tree beckons

me

a ghostly sight

eerily white

has shed its outer bark

to remove harmful boring beetles

an icy pond

radiantly reflects sunlight

ducks bob up and down

in a small 

ice-free patch

startled by me

they quack

they fly

 circle the pond

provide

a dazzling display

of color

and as

 light reflects off their feathers

they

wave

 goodbye

A Winter’s Walk

Whenever I go to my little log cabin in New Marlborough, Massachusetts, in late fall or winter, I know I have to be prepared to expect the unexpected.  I have encountered porcupines sleeping just outside the back door to the cabin.  I use a shovel to place the porcupine in a wheelbarrow and move it to the forest, only to have it reappear the next day.     I have had to deal with red squirrels packing Norway Spruce cones between the rafters of the dirt floor cellar for winter food.  They know not to place the cones on the floor because once the thaw arrives, there will be about 12 inches of water in the cellar that will ruin the remaining cones.  In short, I never know what to expect as the cabin is in a remote area with my closest year-round neighbor about three miles away.   I start the wood-burning stove and try to get the cabin to about 65 degrees before nightfall.   I get up early, at least two hours before dawn, add wood to the fire, get dressed, and patiently wait for sunrise.

I once found a book being discarded by a library titled “One Day on Beetle Rock” by Sally Carrighar when I had just returned from the Army in 1972.  The book caught my eye because there was an image of a squirrel on the cover.  When I saw the title on the inside of the book, I almost put it back until I read the first two lines of the book.  They read, “The water of the brook reflected the sunlight up to an alder branch, where it flickered along the gray bark. On the fool’s gold under the ripples lay a web of sunlight, gently shaken.”   I could not stop reading the book.  I realized that Sally Carrighar possessed a gift for observation as well as being able to describe with impeccable detail the events that occur in nature.  One seems as though they are actually in Sequoia National Park, where nine animals are interacting with nature and each other during one day on Beetle Rock.  I have always loved nature, but her book made me realize that I had to use all my senses when walking in nature because there is so much to be seen, heard, smelled, touched, and even occasionally tasted when one gets into “the woods.”

My poem depicts a typical winter’s day for me at the log cabin and the surrounding woods.  I am very fortunate to be in an area scarcely touched by humans.  To me, as a former science teacher and Botanist, the property is like my personal outdoor laboratory.  There is so much happening during every season of the year; however, it requires childlike eyes and a childlike mind to appreciate it all.  

Yes, the Christmas Fern has a story to tell.  How does it survive the freezing temperatures?  Yes, the Sycamore trees have a story to tell.  How did they evolve to shed their bark to avoid insect damage? Yes, the pond has a story to tell. How was it formed, and why is it so important for so many species that live in or near it? I will attempt to answer these questions with future poems and stories. 

###

Lilac Time

I've been meaning to write about President Trump, the Pope, and tariffs but the April showers have brought May flowers, and my brother Robert DeStefano has sent me another of his nature poems. Last week his Dandelion poem was well received, and so here is his Ode to the fragrant Lilac with an explanation appended. *                                                     

Syringa vulgaris

Lilac

who 

endowed you with

such beauty

who

perfumed your flowers

made you a

delight

for the eye

Lilac

Syringa vulgaris

vulgaris?

I

cannot imagine Spring without the

Lilac

May

would never be

May

without the

Lilac

Syringa

nimble nymph

of the forest

pursued by

Pan

loved by this

man

 

           

At the beginning of May, I begin to look for Lilac flower buds on my Lilac bushes.  I know I will soon be treated with the distinct lilac fragrance.  I am attracted to those deep purple flowers like a bee searching for nectar.  There are so many different fragrant chemicals produced by plants.  One of the Lilac’s chemicals is a hydrocarbon known as beta-ocimene which belongs to a class of chemicals known as acyclic terpenes. The sweet smell of citronella, eucalyptus, and many other flowers is due to beta-ocimene.  This molecule in the presence of other molecules produces a distinct fragrance.

  

            Syringa is the genus name of the Lilac.  In Greek mythology, Pan, the god of fields and forests, fell in love with the nymph, Syringa.  She ran from him and eventually turned herself into a Lilac bush.  Pan stopped by the bush and made the first panpipe from the wood of the Lilac.

  

            The Lilac appears in Walt Whitman’s poem, “When Lilacs in the Dooryard Bloom’d.”   Here the Lilac represents a symbol of life after the death of President Abraham Lincoln.

            I experimented with making shampoo using water from the deep well at my little log cabin in the Berkshires. I first began by giving a bottle of my water, EAU, to some of my AP Biology students at the end of the year. I told them the wine bottle filled with water was magical so they should only drink it on a special occasion.  After 15 years, some of those students still have the unopened bottle in a refrigerator.  I then decided to use the water to make shampoo.  I purchased various essential oils from a commune cult located in New Mexico. The cult members gather thousands of flowers and extract oils from them.  A few drops in a liter of water are all that is necessary to make water fragrant.  I used Dr. Bonner's sulfur-free, unscented castile soap and a pinch of Himalayan sea salt to provide the minerals needed to make a lather.  I called the soap EAU-POO.  I persuaded one of my students, a beautiful girl with beautiful blond hair, to try the EAU-POO.  When she came to class the next day, she explained that she used the EAU-POO and twirled her beautiful hair. She laughed and said, “EAU-POO, look what it can do for you.”

###

*Robert DeStefano's nature poems and other writings can be found on Amazon.

Dreams on a Rock Ledge

Someone told me that April is National Poetry Month, so I thought I would post a poem by my younger brother, Robert. Only a few years ago did I discover that he had been writing poetry. I have known him as a master science teacher and naturalist but recently he showed me a little collection of poems he has written, most based on his great love of nature. He claims that he wrote these poems to pass the time while proctoring classroom exams but it seems to me that they reflect a lifetime of experiencing nature at close hand.  Here is one that had a particular meaning for my wife and I as she celebrated her birthday yesterday. Below is Rob's explanatory note.

She

sat on the rock ledge

in her youth

and dreamed

now

in old age

the

same

rising sun

reflected off her radiant face

for a moment

the trials of

a long life

evaporated

 like morning dew

she

spied

a monarch butterfly

perched

on a nearby tree limb

she

sat motionless on the ledge

peering

into a

withering

field of goldenrod

gazing

into the future

butterfly goldenrod and

she

wondering

if there are any dreams

left

to be dreamt 

I never know what will inspire me to write a poem or a story.  Something might just catch my eye at the right moment.  My brother, Frank, and his wife, Linda, often visited my Aunt Rose’s log cabin in the Berkshires after they were married almost 60 years ago.   Now that I am in charge of the log cabin, they often visit my wife and me at the cabin.  We all have a great fondness for the cabin and its surroundings.  When Frank and Linda arrived on a recent clear, blue sky, sunny, Autumn day, a camera in my brain snapped an unforgettable photograph.  Linda walked to the log cabin, and then walked up the stone steps, but instead of going into the cabin, rested on a stone ledge that extends from the outside wall of the log cabin.  She placed her back against the logs and extended her legs on the rock ledge and let the Sun warm her body.  I smiled to myself knowing I would someday write a poem based on her actions.  I had been inspired.  I did not ask her, but I am certain she has rested on that rock ledge many times in the past.  I began to wonder what she might be thinking about at that moment, and what she might have thought about years ago when she rested there.

I wonder what the butterfly might be thinking about after she has laid her eggs.  I wonder what the goldenrod that has provided nectar and pollen for honeybees might be thinking about as its seeds have finally been shed.    Everyone has dreams when they are young, now older, I wonder if I have enough dreams left.

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National Poetry Month

Someone told me that April is National Poetry Month, so I thought I would post a trio by my younger brother, Robert. Only last year did I discover that he had been writing poetry. For years and years I have known him as a master science teacher and naturalist but recently he showed me a little collection of poems he has written, most based on his great love of nature. He claims that he wrote these poems to pass the time while proctoring classroom exams but it seems to me that they reflect a lifetime of experiencing nature at close hand. 

                                                      DREAMS

 

So

 sad it seems

so many

 have better thoughts

In dreams

I

 wish to be truly awake

for

 in reality

all dreams are

fantasy

I

 wish to flood 

my brain

with

 scintillating stimuli

to overload

 my senses

where

 sight becomes sound

odors taste

taste by touch

and

in this burst 

of

 sensory confusion

no fear

of 

delusion

 

Somewhere in Belgium 1971 upon seeing so many of my army friends getting high on drugs.  Empty lives as Thoreau said, “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.” ###

 

SLEEPING IN A CEMETERY

Slept

Out of doors in a 

cemetery

last night

no animals came by to

eat me

no aliens dropped down to 

abduct me

no corpses arose to

haunt me

but

the full moon

startled me

thought it was the

sunrise

bright enough

to read

the sadness on the

tombstones

a newborn baby died

mother died a year later

husband remarried

second wife died

during childbirth

returned to sleep

only to be wakened

by the birds

who had anticipated the

dawn

###

EXTINCTION

Thinking

of extinction

can be quite depressing

all the genomes forever lost

all the life no one will ever see

what happens a billion years from now

when all earthly creatures

are cooked by our bloated red giant of a sun

the genomes of every living thing should be saved

a DNA flash drive locked in a box

for some future space traveler to find

I would put a warning on this

genomic Pandora’s box

revive, reanimate all

except for  Homo sapiens

for this species was too wise

too clever, too devious

too loving, too good

too bad, too selfish

too generous

but

much too 

dangerous

###

A Walk in the Woods*

I

know when I have been away too long

the senses have been dulled

by the glass and asphalt world

I

walk much too quickly

but the senses slowly awaken

my eyes now focus on what

I

had missed ten minutes ago

my hearing becomes more acute

I

now begin to revel in the aromas

permeating the air

my pace slows to a crawl

everything excites me

how could I have missed the salamander

resting on a moss covered log

I

get down on my hands and knees

turn over rocks

smell he earth

the air

is delicious

I

 breathe slowly

I

exhale on a fern frond

I

know we share

some primitive DNA

I 

marvel at the 

Dragonfly

perched on my shoulder

I

see its great ancestor

in the multifaceted eyes

and once again

I 

am king of kings

on dragonfly wings

###

Robert Louis DeStefano

Somewhere in the Berkshires

* I have just discovered that my younger brother Robert has turned to the writing of poetry. For years and years I have known him as a master science teacher and naturalist but recently he showed me a little collection of poems he has written, most based on his great love of nature. He claims that he wrote these poems to pass the time while proctoring classroom exams but it seems to me that they reflect a lifetime of experiencing nature at close hand. 

A walk in the woods with him is a true adventure. As he meanders among the trees and shrubs behind his log cabin in the Berkshires he points out, identifies, and discusses practically every plant and tree. He says his interest began in the garden of the back yard of our grandparents home in Woodside, NY. Of course, the woods had long disappeared in Woodside but the garden was an oasis. I also grew up in the same garden with its vegetables, flowers, grape vine, cherry tree and mysterious fig tree that came to life again each year after severe pruning, but I never developed his interest in nature especially in seemingly common forms like ferns and salamanders. It was a gift, a gift that is evident in the poems he has written like the one published above.