Firefly Veneration

This spring/summer has brought us a very active firefly mating season. In May and June, hundreds of fireflies drift through the nighttime air, flashing their particular species' signal, hoping to find a mate and carry on their species' existence. The males float along, flashing their signal—looking for a female who might respond with a similar flash code from the ground; all driven to mate and procreate.

Over the last few years we've observed a decreasing number of flashes—worrying us about the health of these incandescent beetles. (Yes, they're not a true fly, but a beetle.) Maybe last summer's plentiful rain was favorable to the health of the current generation? In any case, we're thrilled with their plentiful flashing displays this year.

On a recent evening, I was settling into an overnight sojourn in my meditation hut, deeply absorbed by the multiple illuminations of these wee light sources. Many subspecies were active that night, as I observed a wide variety of flash codes—from steady flares of a second or so in duration to twinkles that pulsed several times a second. It was truly mesmerizing.

I had lit my customary candle and set it outside on a statue of the Buddha, when I began to notice several fireflies hovering near the candle. Were they intrigued by its beacon? Did one of them wish to mate with this mysterious and continuous light source?

My mind played with the whimsical possibilities that could be playing out. I began to imagine what might be going on in the minds of these flashing beetles. I fantasized about how they could possibly interpret the light from the candle. They must have been amazed at the strong, unwavering nature of the strange luminescence being emitted by that thing. They may have been thinking: “It's not moving. Could it be a female? Why doesn't it blink? There seems to be something otherworldly about it. It's awe inspiring—almost frightening.”

Then one of the fireflies might have exclaimed that it could be a god. “It doesn't seem threatening, but none of us is able to maintain that steadfast glow. It obviously has superior powers. It must be a god.”

Just then a moth spiraled into the candle, and the fireflies seemed to back off in amazement. “It has to be a god, because we've just watched a sacrifice. Hail to the firefly god!” Many of them moved a little farther away, either out of respect or fear. Some of them flew off at a distance—not wanting their god to witness their lurid mating scenes.

I watched two fireflies that remained. Were they older and wiser? Were they filled with reverence? I imagined the older one predicting that the god's light would soon wink out. He'd seen it before. He knew that some of the younger guys might lose a little faith when that happened, but he also predicted that in another four nights the god would return, radiating its steady, holy beacon. “Keep the faith, brother. Our god will return.”

[Note: My wife and I do an outdoor bath every four days, after which I spend the night in my meditation hut. Thus, the wise firefly elder is right. Another candle will be lit four days from now.]

Firefly Antics

This is the season to watch the antics of fireflies. Late June and early July are such fun times—gazing at the flashing, flying, glowing creatures. Fireflies are another of those insects with “fly” in their name, that are not flies at all. Another common moniker they have is lightening bug, but they’re also not a bug.

Fire“flies” are beetles, and they ought to be proud of that, since beetles are the most abundant and diverse critters on Earth. One in every four animals is a beetle! One in five of all species (including plants) is a beetle. Yikes, they’re everywhere! Just in North America we sport 24,000 different species of beetles.

Have you ever watched a beetle fly? They look quite ungainly, compared to their distant cousins, the “true” flies (who have only two wings). Beetles have four wings; but the forward pair are for protection—and are unable to flap and help in the flying game. They are hard plates that are lifted up and held ungainly out to the sides, as the aft pair gets the beetle precariously airborne.

There’s quite a variation between the different species of fireflies. Most females can fly, but some are wingless. Some females deceive another species’ males and eat them. Some species don’t flash at all—the so-called day-active non-luminescent fireflies. (Huh? Isn’t that an oxymoron?)

But I digress. I wanted to write about a recent firefly antic that I was treated to. Ordinarily, I watch the lanterns of these luminescent beetles flash on and off when it’s dark. It’s very rare that I can follow an individual firefly after he blinks off. If I see another flash, I have no idea if it’s him or another nearby suitor. I even have no idea of how many flashers I’m watching. It may be just a couple of them dashing and flashing here and there, or a bunch of them hovering lazily in one location and occasionally flashing.

On this recent occasion it was early dusk, so I could see him, even when his beacon was extinguished. It was mesmerizing. He’d helicopter slowly along, a couple of feet above the ground, then quickly dip downward and flash. Bobbing back up, he’d dawdle along for a bit, then swiftly dip and flash again. He looked to be in hunting mode. After each flash he’d pause, as if waiting for a potential mate to respond, and then move on, when he got no answer.

He kept searching, drawing me into his undertaking. At one point an answering flash came from below, with the same timing. There she was! But he missed the signal! He moved dreamily on, dipping and flashing. I wanted to call out to him, telling him he’d just missed a golden opportunity. I hoped he’d U-turn and come back to find her, but he plodded fruitlessly along. Could he even have heeded my call? Does a firefly have ears for human coaches?

Firefly Unrequited Love

Sitting in the tub, laid back, eyes closed, relaxing. Suddenly a firefly flashes in my face. I open my eyes to see one hovering not six inches from my nose. It’s dusk, but not yet dark, so I can see this guy, even when he doesn’t flash. He flies around behind my head, and I spot another lightning bug squatting on my towel. The hovering bug flashes a few more times, then closes in on the towel bug, after it tentatively flashes at the same frequency as the hoverer. He lands a few inches away, wiggles around a few times, flashes a couple more times, but doesn’t close the gap.

Then he takes to the air again, circles around, flashing a few more times. The towel bug finally responds, again hesitantly. The flyer lands a couple more times, but never closely approaches the towel bug. Airborne, he circles a few more times, then finally disappears into the closing night. The towel bug never moves. (Later, as I climb out of the tub, I have to carefully flick it off, before I can dry myself.)

The firefly mating game, as I understand it: The males fly around, sending out their subspecies’ flash code. They are on the lookout for a female, sitting on a bush, who might respond to their language. When he sees the awaited answer, he closes in and mates, if he can. But sometimes a devious female will flash a code alien to her subspecies, trying to lure in a foreign male, hoping to make dinner out of him. Like the praying mantis, the mating game may be the endgame for the male.

My fanciful interpretation of what I witnessed this night: The hoverer is, of course, the male. He was checking out a potential liaison with the towel female, but eventually declined to copulate and flew off. Why? I can conceive of a few options. First, she rejected him—the usual prerogative of the female. She didn’t get turned on by either his hovering antics or his flashing skill. Deeming him less than a desirable guy to father her eggs, she flashed only weakly, telling him to bug off.

Second, maybe he rejected her. His energetic hovering tricks and flashing were being wasted on a tired, uninspired lady. He tried to dance with her, but she just didn’t light his fire.

Third, maybe she was a killer trying to lure him—flashing deceitfully, hoping she could draw him in for the meal. “Come a little closer, buster, and you’re dead meat.” He was enticed by the prospect of sex, but luckily cautious. He sensed it wasn’t quite right. Something about her flash seemed suspicious. It had a bit of a foreign accent to it. Not yet horny enough to tempt fate, he opted for safer skies.

Will I ever know what really happened? Guess I’ll have to take a few more evening baths and keep my eyes open.

Dance of the Fireflies

Late June, early July is about the height of the firefly season around here. They first appear early in June—a few tentative, isolated points of light in the darkness. The season’s first flash can be startling. I may be initially misled into thinking it’s a bright star suddenly winking on, or an airplane blinking its way across the blackened sky. Then I joyously recognize that it’s the return of the “lightning bug,” the adult form of the glowworm, called by its scientific name as Lampyridae. (Isn’t that a lovely name?)

Speaking of the scientific perspective, fireflies are a beetle, with only one pair of wings—like the house fly. (Most insect pilots sport four wings.) They use bioluminescence to flash their lights—a chemical process whose efficiency humans can’t begin to approach with our advanced technology. A female lays her fertilized eggs on the ground, they hatch within a few weeks, and overwinter as larvae. The larvae may also flash from the ground—a sort of weak, slow-motion copy of what the fliers do; a wormy glow. They pupate in the spring, emerge as adults in June and then go seeking sex.

And that is what the flashing scene is mostly about: sex. (Well, it’s really about successful procreation, but we humans accentuate the erotic aspect of the procedure.) When they first appear, it’s as if they are sluggishly warming up for the coming hot flashes. The earliest fireflies light up at lazy intervals and stay lit for a good while (one to two seconds!). A neat thing happens if I have had my eyes adjust to the darkness and the bug is within a few feet of the ground: I can see a circle of light that they cast below them—like a miniature police helicopter looking for fleeing criminals. These mini-copters are silent, however, and have only sex on their minds.

As July arrives the firefly dance becomes much more lively. They crowd the air, flash much more often, and more rapidly. The activity is captivating. I can become deeply absorbed by the dance. If I look intently enough, I can follow individual flies blinking on and off, as they amble through the air. Sometimes their flashes almost synchronize, making it appear as if one bug has sped across the yard in a split second, following some erratic path.

I wonder about what amazing eyes they must have—that can withstand such brilliant flashes and not blind them. I imagine myself shrunk to a mustard-seed size, clinging tightly to the back of a firefly, getting the thrill ride of my life. Suddenly it bioluminesces, blinding me for a minute. What protective mechanisms has Nature provided its eyes? Does it blink at just the right time? Is its lit-up tail so far behind? The firefly can’t afford to become temporarily blinded and crash into a tree branch. He’s got an important mission. His chick might be waiting on a blade of grass down there, about to flash him in response. Despite being temporarily and imaginarily blinded, I picture myself hopping off. I don’t wish to be wedged in the middle of their embrace.