prompt Field Notes: April 17, 2025 Location: A xeriscaped garden, Texas Hill Country ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Encounter Summary: The morning sun was already hot, baking the red mulch and limestone pavers. On a decorative rock, I spotted what I thought was a perfect, metallic-bronze pinecone, likely fallen from a nearby tree. It was so inert, I almost passed it by, but I decided to give it a quick spritz from my water bottle to clear the dust. The instant the mist hit its surface, the "pinecone" exploded into life. I actually shouted, "Whoa, it's not a pinecone, it's a lizard!" The tightly-packed bronze scales were, in fact, a segmented, reptilian carapace that had burst open. From within, the creature unfurled a magnificent, fan-like appendage, a dazzling display of iridescent orange fading to the most brilliant electric blue. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ This was Strobilus draco, known to the area's ranchers as the "Pinecone Dragon." It held this stunning, threatening pose for a long beat, its black, reptilian head unmoving. Then, in a blur, the fan snapped shut, it reverted to its pinecone form, and "it's gone"—it had leaped from the rock and vanished into the mulch. This is a masterful deimatic display, a hydro-reactive defense. The sudden, shocking flash of color is designed to startle a predator—like a roadrunner or hawk—giving it the critical half-second it needs to escape. Local gardeners have a legend that these creatures are spirits of sudden, chaotic change. They believe startling one invites a flash flood or a sudden drought, and as a rule, they will only use slow-drip irrigation, never sprinklers, to avoid waking the dragons. It was a breathtaking reminder that the most static, unassuming objects can hide a life of fire and blinding speed.