Insects in The Mist

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


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


quite suddenly,

it seemed that the miniscule maestros


in fact,

conducting their aerial counterparts.

I was not witnessing chaos,


I was seated,

front row,

in a musical

that has been playing

every night

for the last few

million years.


there was something else.


amidst the chaos

that lended itself

to my own understanding.

It was here,

on this hillside

among the insects

did I ever experience



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