A Vinyl County Almanac

Every year, in late August or early September, there is a moment when the bounty of Summertime slips for just a moment, and I become acutely aware for the first time of the rumbling preparations of Fall just beneath the surface. This year, it happened when I was counting bats in an especially populous breeding colony near a lake in Litchfield County. While we were waiting for the first bats to emerge, the still and oppressive August humidity was suddenly cut through by a chilly breeze from off the water and, a moment later, the sound of insistent honking and trumpeting began to build in the sky above. At its climax, a flock of Canada geese, flying in post-card perfect V-formation glided down over our heads and disappeared behind the tree line. A short beat, and there was more honking and splashing from the lake.  These geese were almost certainly not migrating — it to was much too early for that — but returning home to roost after feeding all day at some local soccer field or highway

  Winged alates or "swarmers" emerging from their nest (1). We usually think of ant nests as complex, underground structures containing various tunnels and chambers where food is stored, young are cared for, and eggs are laid. This is indeed what the domestic life of many species looks like, but it is far from universal. Some ants build their nests in existing structures, like dead trees or old buildings; others will simply gather beneath a log or rock in the woods. I've been flipping over a lot of logs and rocks this summer while doing salamander surveys and so I've run into a lot of these more minimalist ant nests. Usually, what I find is a bunch of regular looking worker ants and the tiny, cylindrical, white larva that they look after. When I take the roof off of their house, the workers scramble, some gently picking up the larva in their mandibles and moving them to a safer location, and others running out to try and bit my hands. More recently, however, I've