I missed this year’s total solar eclipse and views of the northern lights. The latter was missed because of relentless rain and cloud cover, and the other, because after days of ransacking drawers, closets, and boxes, I could not find our eclipse-viewing glasses.
Here in North Carolina, we were not in the path of totality. Still, I felt left out of the phenomenon that seemingly united so many that have become increasingly divided. I also wanted to feel the rush of awe and wonder.
Several nights ago, I was unable to fall back asleep after taking the old dog out at 3 a.m. I laid there for almost an hour, counting the seconds between lightning flashes and distant rumbles of thunder. I couldn’t remember the “flash-to-bang” calculation for determining the storm’s distance, so I started counting the seconds between my husband’s snorts and snores.
Between the flashbulb flares (and snoring) I noticed a sliver of moon beaming through the line of trees that borders the neighbors’ yard. There were lights, too, blinking through the branches like tiny satellites. It’s only May and the evenings are still cool here, but could those fairy-like lights in the trees have been fireflies?
I had forgotten about the mystery lights until a poem I was writing led me to research when these soft-bellied beetles (I grew up calling lightning bugs) are first seen in our region. I was surprised to learn there are 150 different species of fireflies in North America alone, with new species still being discovered.
Here in the eastern United States, the Spring treetop flasher, Pyractomena borealis, is the first firefly to eclose (emerge from pupa to adult). This particular species, I learned, pupates in winter on the trunks of tulip poplars, black walnut, and hickory trees, all of which are common in our region and backyard.
Male treetop flashers eclose first, but wait for the females to emerge before they begin their flashing display. The conditions also have to be right—warm temperatures (at least 50 degrees), no precipitation, and calm winds.
Nights like these can be few in Spring, but when fair weather prevails, the females fly to the treetops (with hardened exoskeletons) and the spectacle begins.
Most evenings, I wash the dinner dishes and clean up the kitchen while my husband takes the old dog outside for a quick walk. After several days of wind and rain, the night sky was clear and the trees were still. I stepped outside with the recycling bin and looked up, scanning the gray gloam for the fluttering silhouettes of little brown bats.
Instead, I caught sight of a brilliant light show. High in the darkening canopy, tiny lights flashed and flickered with an essence that was extraterrestrial.
“Look up in the trees,” I called out to my husband, who had just crested the driveway with the dog in tow. “It’s the first fireflies of the season, Spring treetop flashers!”
I went back inside and turned off the outside lights to get a better view. Every few seconds, in almost every branch, there was a flashing orb of soft yellow light. It was dizzying to watch and my neck ached from craning, but it was also elating.
According to the conservation status provided by NatureServe Explorer, populations of Pyractomena borealis are not threatened, but have declined due to loss of habit stemming from residential and commercial development. Light pollution interferes with courtship displays and disrupts mating behavior, and invasive plant species like Kudzu often overtake the trees that provide habitat for larvae and adults.
Despite living in a residential area, the cul-de-sac that we live on is without street lights. We tend to keep our outdoor lights off, unless walking the dogs late at night, which makes for better star viewing (and watching fireflies).
We also have an abundance of trees on our little tract of land—tulip poplars, black walnut, red and white oak, hickory, mulberry, and mountain cherry trees. We have phased out invasives (as much as possible) and planted natives, like swamp milkweed, asters, rattlesnake master, sweetspire shrubs, black-eyed susans, Joe Pye Weed, and coneflower. Every fall, we let the leaves be, moving some to designated areas where they are used as natural mulch, and become vital habitat for wildlife and overwintering species like moths and fireflies.
When compared to the neighbors’ manicured lawns, our yard can seem overgrown and unkempt. Looking up tonight and seeing hundreds of flashing yellow lights in the treetops, I have never been more proud of its wildness.
a little news
My newest collection of poems, Every Note, a Lantern, is now available from Kelsay Books and Amazon. No poems about fireflies in this collection, but it is full of praises for small spectacles.
I am enchanted by your wild yard and beautiful fireflies! I enjoy them so much - they will be later to twinkle here in Maine, and smallish in numbers for so many reasons, but absolutely magical and we look forward to them every year 💕
So beautiful. ❤️