The California Academy of Science had a fantastic display on leafcutter ants.
A fallen cacao tree lay on a bed of simulated jungle floor in a 40′ plastic viewing chamber. A ceaseless line of ants curved around fake boulders, climbing over each other in a mindless drive to consume the leaves restored daily by museum workers. Leafless ants stream outward to the tree; flecks of green sail back upstream in a silent green regatta. Each ant takes its turn slicing off a piece of leaf, then returns it to the nest, where they are composted and used to grow food.
But what appears to be an organized dance is more of a drunken mosh pit. Leaves are dropped halfway back to the nest. Ants start slicing a leaf, are bumped by another and, and wheel around, slicing indiscriminantly. Ants resolutely chomp through the last bit holding the segment they themselves are on, and flutter to the ground. From time to time the ant stops slicing, tugs on the cut section, and if it doesn’t come loose, may wander away. Half-cut segments are abandoned, then restarted at an odd angle by another ant. Sometimes a final cut breaks a section free entirely, and it flutters to the ground below while the ant stumbles upside down to the other side of the leaf — or an ant tugs resolutely on the uncut piece of leaf, forgetting the piece that took so much work to cut free.
What does this have to do with my day? Nothing at all. I spent my day at an institute of higher learning.
