Things We Take for Granted: Urban Wildlife

Photomosaic by Maria Helena Carey

The other day, during a twilit walk around the Capitol grounds and the Supreme Court, I ran into a very special visitor who was taking in the sights.  She was originally from somewhere in Eurasia, but definitely called the Chesapeake watershed her home after countless generations here.  Her striking, dark and leggy frame really stuck out against the white of the marble: I took her picture.  And it was only later, thanks to friends on Facebook, that I discovered I’d stuck my face entirely too close to a camel cricket (Diestrammena asynamora), also known as a jumping spider.  They are apparently harmless bugs, but they jump randomly and they like to take over basements and backyard decks in summer.

Perhaps you’re thinking, “Okay, so you saw a big ol’ bug– what’s the big deal?”  You’re probably right.  Except that in a strange and decidedly small-scale way, it’s thrilling to see the daily subversion and takeover of small and big animals and all kinds of plants all over the city, and especially all around Capitol Hill.  With all its parks and open spaces, our fair neighborhood gives us plenty of opportunities for taking in bits and pieces of the wonders of our natural world: like a microscopic version of the Discovery Channel, especially if you count the placards all over the Capitol grounds that tell you which trees are planted there.

And really, anything makes for good observation if you’re playing amateur entomologist: butterflies and honeybees are beautiful, sure, but cockroaches are disgustingly fascinating as well –especially when people insist on calling them “waterbugs” in what I believe to be a vain effort to disregard the inherent cockroachiness of the water bug: they are a sobering reminder that the city is really theirs and that they will outlast us all, with their squat exoskeleton and their shifty shuffling. Squirrels and their crazy antics and gathering compulsion provide hours of entertaining for small children; robins are thrilling to see when you’ve had enough of snow.  Even mice or raccoon tracks in the snow can be almost magical, as you imagine what kind of little creature traipsed through the powder, freezing its little disgusting feet off.  (However, I can quite assure you I will most likely never feel similarly poetic about rats).

Tulip magnolias, cherries and dogwoods in the spring; linden trees in summer; and getting beaten up at Lincoln Park with chestnuts (horse or otherwise) in late summer, before the leaves fall and the cycle starts all over again: they are all happy reminders that we can still be in touch with a little wilderness within the narrow confines of our sometimes well-manicured, postage-stamp-sized front and back yards.

And sometimes it’s fun to stop and enjoy the show; and I hope we can all stop shrieking long enough not to take our wildlife friends for granted.