We hear a lot about what other species can do for us, often through attempts to quantify their value in economic terms. Statisticians put pollinators’ contributions to U.S. food crops in the $15 to $30 billion range, and researchers have even calculated price points for individual species. Did you know, for example, that a single Southeastern blueberry bee has been found to visit nearly 50,000 blueberry flowers in a year, pollinating up to $75 worth of berries?*

Though the thought of all that effort heightens my admiration for both the animals and the scientists who have taken the painstaking time to study them, the ubiquitousness of this kind of “What’s in it for me?” framework gives me pause. Even the very word “pollinator” itself, at least as it’s often used now, is reductionist, singling out only one functional aspect among many that characterize this vastly diverse set of creatures.

The approach is understandable in a society plagued with short attention spans and even shorter-term thinking, but I fear that emphasizing the financial benefits we derive from animals may have the opposite of its intended effect. As Richard Conniff described so eloquently in a New York Times opinion piece, economic value is often successfully invoked to the detriment of our fellow species. “[U]sefulness is precisely the argument other people put forward to justify destroying or displacing wildlife,” he writes, “and they generally bring a larger and more persuasive kind of green to the argument.”

Around the time I read Conniff’s essay last fall, someone suggested I write a blog on the economic value of pollinators. I’ve tried, but the numbers are contradictory, and the story never seems to hold up. There’s a reason for that: Our pollinators—and indeed all the animals on this planet—have a priceless role to play, even if we humans haven’t figured it all out yet. Beyond what they do for us in the immediate present, the hard work of insects results in seeds and fruit that are critical to the diets of a quarter of our birds and many mammals. They’re also in and of themselves a meal for wildlife ranging from baby birds to foxes to bears. As the most diverse and numerous group of animals on the planet, insects are the very cornerstone of life itself. How can we possibly quantify that?

In honor of National Pollinator Week, I’d rather not talk about their financial value—which, as Conniff writes, should be obvious by now. I’d like to let these wondrous creatures—beautiful and strange and deserving of our respect and appreciation in their own right—help tell their stories through close-up views of their daily existence. Taken in only a couple of days this week on just a few plants, these photos gleaned tiny surprises I didn’t even see until I zoomed in. If only we could always train a macro lens on nature with our naked eyes, how much more would we understand of the bigger picture unfolding before us?

To be a bee or not to be a bee?

 Watching the buzz around my possumhaw viburnums, my father and I wondered if these were baby bumblebees. They’re certainly fuzzy enough. But those little hairs captured so much pollen that it was hard to say for sure what lay beneath, and there was something about the bulkiness and movements of these insects that suggested a different species. Sure enough, they’re one of many that evolved to mimic bees, possibly to keep predators at bay. Commonly called the hairy flower chafer or bee-like flower scarab beetle, Trichiotinus piger also has some gorgeous headgear: a set of antennae that look like antlers or tiny twigs.

Peek-a-boo!

Also covered in pollen—to the point of looking like an albino insect (top)—were these notch-tipped flower longhorn beetles (Typocerus sinuatus). Only after finding one with a mere dusting of pollen (above) on another patch of possumhaw viburnum was I able to discern the markings. Beetles are thought to be the original pollinators, along with flies, appearing millions of years before bees.

Precision pollinator?

It was practically a beetle festival, with our new plantings of viburnum attracting a diverse crowd. This second type of flower longhorn beetle, Metacmaeops vittata, looked more smooth-bodied and less prone to masquerading in full-on pollen makeup while enjoying the open, flat blooms. Her larvae are wood borers, preferring tulip poplar—another abundant species on our property—as a host. When these plants produce nutritious pink and blue berries in the fall, the birds will have this and all our other industrious beetles to thank.

Don’t look at me—I’m plant debris!

In trying to capture a photo of a small bee on this dogwood, I saw a reddish dangling bit hanging off the flower but didn’t think anything of it until I downloaded my photos onto the big screen. To my eyes, this creature looked like a piece of debris. And that’s how she likes it, apparently fooling a lot of species into thinking she’s a leftover plant part. So tiny that she’s sometimes grouped with an informal assemblage of moths called “microlepidoptera,” this is probably a grape plume moth or a Himmelman’s plume moth. Though many moths are considered important specialist pollinators, especially of night-blooming plants, the 10,000 species on this continent remain underappreciated. As the authors of the Xerces Society’s Attracting Native Pollinators note, “The muted colors of moths, their largely nocturnal lives, and the reputation of only a few species as crop or wardrobe pests results in their typically being overlooked at best or despised at worst.” I’m so grateful my camera was more attentive than I.

Accept no imitation?

The real deal: Bumblebees have a lot of imitators in the animal world, but none quite so bumbly and fuzzy as the bees themselves. We have added lots of natives for them, but we also leave in place some long-ago planted lamb’s ear and catmint to help tide them over during the transition from late spring to summer blooms. This year we have had far fewer bees so far, an observation I’ve heard echoed by friends and colleagues around the country. Though we have not used chemicals of any kind in the landscape during the 15 years we’ve lived on this property, I can’t say the same for all my neighbors and have wondered if this is playing a role in the sudden decline.

This is my milkweed, too!

Who says milkweed is just for monarchs? Many kinds of insects enjoy drinking from the flowers, eating the leaves, mating on the plants, and even eating each other in the milkweed patch (not necessarily all at once or in that order!). This great spangled fritillary has come to feed again and again on the nectar, keeping an eye out (or actually many eyes—butterflies have compound eyes with numerous lenses) for predators like me. I wish I could thank her and tell her I need nothing more from her; what she and her kind have already given us is far more than enough.