It is dangerous here. He can sense a hive of yellow and black marauders, eager to feed their carnivorous young. He must be careful, but caution is the easiest of virtues to one of his breed. Others are similarly aware of the dangers in this place. They feed cautiously, grouping themselves into ragged bands. Their antennae wave furiously, tasting the air for the tell-tale scent of stinging wasps; they listen for the flutter-buzz of predatory wings. It is a sound that even the youngest of them know, a sound easily distinguished from friendlier, blunter wingbeats of his own species. These feeding fields do not belong to them alone. There are isopods in the undergrowth: gregarious, armored crustaceans of venerable pedigree; they amble about on fourteen elegant legs. They are not competitors for food, they are not marauding predators, eager to feed their voracious, black-headed larvae enclosed in papery cells. There are fewer predators here than in more distant, open fields behind, but there is wood, and so the yellow and black women with stingers come to strip dead and exposed heartwood with their mandible. What they take will be chewed into paper for their nests; it serve the eggs their matron queen lays in so prodigious a number. But the she-wasps are far away, ignoring their sequestered males and fawning over the younglings; and so--for now--the green foragers can enjoy relative safety. One--perhaps a scout, perhaps a lookout--perches in sunlight, warming himself, though not casually so. He has stored brown, defensive spittle in his mouth-glands. It is little defense against wasps, but it may repel one, two, or a larger number of them. He is aware of females close by: women of his own species. They are larger than he is, and so better targets for the wasps who might still come. His antennae wave furiously, but he tastes only the wind and errant whiffs of some strange, smoky substance: pollen from an acrid weed, pheromone-stink from the crude, shambling mammal-things that bark and chortle to one another in a language far beyond his own silent reckoning. His rest is short. He uses only enough raw sunlight to stir his blood. Nothing moves in his vicinity. Nothing sees him. He is, nonetheless, exposed, and this rubs uncomfortably against instinct. There is greenery ahead: food and shelter. He gauges the distance, flexes the muscles of wings and jumper-legs. And in a moment, he is gone. **** This grasshopper was photographed in the same truck yard as the other grasshoppers in my gallery. In fact, he was the first. He came to rest on a rather boring cardboard box, and so I tweaked the background a bit, though left the grasshopper alone. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and at some point, I really will catch up on commenting myself.