“The aphid is a stupid little creature which lives by thrusting its bill or sucking tube into a stem or leaf if a plant, and thus settles down for life, nourished by the sap which it sucks up; it has a peculiar habit of exuding from its alimentary canal drops of honeydew when it feels the caress of the ant’s antennæ upon its back.” — Anna Botsford Comstock, Handbook of Nature Study
We three step outside our front door and walk down a paved path to a bridge that spans a small trickle of water, banked on both sides by honeysuckle. They pick small bunches of the flowers, then show me how to pull the pistil and gently lick the shining drop of sweet nectar clinging to the base of the corolla.
Moments later, at the dining room table, we open the thick book and search the index in vain for honeysuckle, then cicadas, but then settle on reading about our most recent house guests, ants. They grow quiet as they listen to me read the story of the ants’ tender care for aphids, the cows of the insect world, how the ants tend to aphid eggs through long winters and build stables for the hatchlings, gently stroking sweetness from their rounded bodies. I finish reading and close the book, and we all three sit at the table and stay quiet with our thoughts, and the air conditioner outside our window spins and hums, turning sticky morning Virginia air into a cool inside breeze on our bare feet.