Patti and I sat on the screened deck this evening (06/03/15) and marveled at the agility of the many bats (probably most were Mexican free-tailed bats) and several dozen dragonflies overhead. We were in the midst of a flying ant emergence and the predatory insects and bats were taking full advantage of the seasonal repast. On convoluted flyways some 30 or 40 feet up, both had become active while the sun was still visible on the western horizon and were still wheeling and reeling when it became too dark to follow their aerial antics.

I came inside to make a few notes on the sightings and happened to glance around at the windows. Not only was it a bat and dragonfly night, it was a gecko night as well. There was at least one Mediterranean gecko, Hemidactylus turcicus, on every single window and several windows hosted 2 or 3 geckos. Every gecko was actively foraging on the ants and other small insects drawn to the lights.

The temperature was a warm 81F and the humidity 85%, apparently providing ideal conditions for our nocturnal friends. And I noted that the dragonflies, insects I had always thought of as exclusively diurnal, were still active when it had become too dark for me to follow their antics. This had been better than watching the Blue Angels and a whole lot less noisy. Some evenings just can't be improved upon.

More photos under the jump...

It was early morning (about 0715) and the temperature was just about 70 F. A least bittern -- always an avian photographic nemesis for me -- had just flown across the gravel road and landed in a patch of cattails about 30 feet ahead of me. I slowed, not that I was walking all that fast anyway, and decided to sit and wait a while on the wet and grassy bank to see if the bird would emerge in a photographable position. It did. But hoping for something even better I waited longer.

As luck would have it, while waiting I noticed a slight disturbance in a patch of floating vegetation about 15 feet from shore. My interest shifted to the floating grasses. Was something really there or was the disturbance caused by a current? I watched. Yes, there definitely was something there and it was closer to shore now. Ah ha! A snake. A dark snake with vestiges of darker bands and of a fair girth. Oh, of course. A Florida cottonmouth, Agkistrodon piscivorous conanti.

The snake neared the shore, idled quietly in the shallows for a minute or two, then slowly emerged. It angled towards a sunny spot about 6 feet from me. Once there it stopped with its head bathed in the warming rays, and then with tongue flickering coiled ever so slowly. When I shifted positions to better angle the camera the snake made a fleeting defensive gape.

Once it settled, I stood, moved quietly up the hill, and left both bird and snake in peace. This was a fine way to begin the day.

More photos under the jump...

The skies opened and the deluge began. There was no easing into it. Within minutes, the afternoon sun in which anoles and tortoises had been basking had been obliterated by leaden clouds. Thunder rumbled and lighting speared the heavens. Torrential rains were falling - 2 and a half inches in just under one hour.



By the time darkness had enveloped us, our little artificial pond on the hill was freshened, overflowing, and echoing with the rapidly pulsed and oft repeated trills of southern toads, Bufo terrestris.

But it was from across the road in the newly opened Sweetwater Wetlands Park that the true anuran cacophony had begun. Tiny marble-sized narrow-mouthed toads, Gastrophryne carolinensis, were present in some numbers, but their peenting calls were virtually overwhelmed by the vocalizations of the two larger, dominant treefrogs: the green and the barking (Hyla cinerea and H. gratiosa, respectively) that had gathered by the dozens, perhaps in the hundreds in the newly created temporary pools.

With favorable breezes the loud choruses, the "wonks" and "hollow barks", of these 2 beautiful hylids could be heard from our back deck more than a half mile away.

Need I mention that it is for these storms that we wait anxiously each year, for with each year's storm arrival we are enchanted anew by the anuran activity they induce.