A glowing full moon peaks through the clouds. The temperature plummets. I rummage through the coat closet in search of mittens, hats, and winter jackets. I pile my family into the car for the hour drive to Westcave Discovery Center near Austin.

I have been looking forward to the December Full Moon Hike for months. I am writing about listening and seeing, about silence and darkness in karst, and I am curious about nocturnal sounds.

I hope we are able to descend the steep and winding trail that leads to the canyon and the grotto and the cave, but I think the afternoon rain will make the stone steps too slippery.

Millions of Mexican free-tailed bats swirl in an ever-rising vortex before me. Their wing-beats sound less like flapping and more like the steady thrum of rain on rooftops. Beyond spectacular, the moment feels celebratory. I sit in awe. The emergence, from the mouth of a cave deep within a sinkhole, will take more than three hours.

This is the largest bat colony in the world. The two-chambered cave sits within a preserve on the northeastern edge of San Antonio, less than thirty minutes from my house. Bat mothers migrate from Mexico every March to have their babies here, one pup per female, and they stay until October. Bracken is a maternal colony. The males form bachelor colonies, like the one at Devil's Sinkhole in Rocksprings, Texas.

Soon whispers of an approaching thunderhead float across the small gathering. There is an energy in the air tonight that holds me in the moment, dreamlike. By the time I leave, flashes of lightening illuminate the purple-black sky. I roll down the window to hear the rumble of thunder. Everything is unusually still or maybe I sense the absence of fluttering bat wings, something I never knew before.

This morning a flutter caught my eye. On the driveway, I found an enormous polyphemus moth, one of the largest silk moths. I called to my son to join me. He is obsessed with Greek mythology and this gorgeous creature was named for a giant cyclops. The two owl-like eye spots on the hind wings scare away predators, I'm sure.

As I gently lifted the moth, its wings covered the span of my cupped hands. I moved it out of the driveway into the leaf litter nearby. Lost in the fallen leaves, we marveled at its ability to camouflage itself.

I once read that movement is the way to know if your yard has become a thriving habitat for critters, large and small. If you stop to observe, our yard looks like an airport during the holidays. Darting, diving, flying, hopping, and scurrying take place throughout the day and into the night. For some, this would be less than ideal, but for me, a wildlife gardener, this is what it's all about!

A few weeks ago, a parade of tiny leopard frogs hopped from the side yard toward our new water feature, a pondless waterfall that mimics the local rivers here. At the same time, I noticed a dragonfly flicking water at the vegetation with the end of her abdomen. It turns out that with every flick, she was depositing an egg and hurling it at the leaves of a plant nestled in the water.

The other day, I was trying to identify the owner of the nest in the hackberry tree outside my bedroom window. I was hoping to see a painted bunting. Through my binoculars, I saw something else nearby. It was a slightly different color than the other branches. I kept returning to it, adjusting my binoculars, trying to get a better view.

It resembled a walking stick (the plant-eating cousin of the praying mantis), but it was enormous, almost as long as a ruler. Plus, if it actually was a walking stick, it was hanging upside down, which I thought was odd. I kept waiting for it to move. I figured that would answer my question—branch, crumpled up leaf, or insect? But it never did move, not even a little. The mosquitos, on the other hand, were hovering near my ankles, so I headed back inside.


But I was curious. I googled Texas walking stick, and there it was—the longest insect in the United States. Some females have been measured at over seven inches long! I figured the individual in the tree outside my window was a female because, as mentioned, her abdomen appeared to be about the size and thickness of a pencil. Not only that, but I learned that when walking sticks molt, they hang upside down and don’t move. Crazy!

Yesterday I was sitting at my writing desk when a flash of bright blue and fiery red caught my eye. (My husband, B, recently helped me move my desk to the back of the house where I can pay closer attention to the backyard. Thank you.) I grabbed my binoculars and focused on the thorny branch of a huisache tree just beyond the window. I nearly dropped the binoculars; it was a painted bunting.

Buntings are small birds, not much larger than a finch. They live secretive lives and prefer to hide in brush and shrubs. How it is that they hide with such intensely colored feathers remains a mystery to me. I had seen one only once before, the year we moved to the Hill Country. That was seven years ago. But yesterday was a spectacular day. I happened to look out the window at just the right moment, and there he was. Breathtaking.