I was coming down from a hike
one day in September
just before dusk.
The last rays
of golden glory
splashed about the hillside
like honey
and as it passed
through the sturdy manzinitas
it created a spectacular
amber radiance.
Though not quite dusk
the bugs were out in full force
and,
for a moment,
I sat in brief silence.
Among the amber motes
was a peculair flying specimen,
though the name now eludes me.
It was a small grouping,
maybe five or six,
flitting in seemingly any way
they so pleased.
The light hit them
in such a puzzling way
that made them dazzle,
as if microscopic fragments
of gold or silver
had been granted glassy wings,
and there they hovered,
darting about in ways
that no intelligence could fathom
a pattern.
It was,
at this particular moment,
that the crickets began;
their soft prelude
beginning with no audience
but me.
It was not long
before their symphony
became deafening;
a colossal crescendo
of chitinous violinists
rising to meet the furious dancings
of whatever flew precariously above
until,
quite suddenly,
it seemed that the miniscule maestros
were,
in fact,
conducting their aerial counterparts.
I was not witnessing chaos,
no.
I was seated,
front row,
in a musical
that has been playing
every night
for the last few
million years.
But,
there was something else.
Something
amidst the chaos
that lended itself
to my own understanding.
It was here,
on this hillside
among the insects
did I ever experience
design.
~LT
