Descent of the Bumblebee

A little poem formed yesterday. As autumn becomes more pronounced, I think of that sweet melancholy often associated with this time of year.

Descent of the Bumblebee

Late slant of autumn sunlight

catches you browsing the last summer flavors.

Striped plush on banded armor,

your finely-tuned hoverings maneuver between goldenrod,

prairie jewel and the meager remains of Veronica.

Still robust and agile, your weight bows down each bloom.

Soon, I will find you, some cool, near-frost morning,

nestled in the petals of your final gathering place,

close to deep slumber but not quite,

perhaps already in Dreamtime.

And I will mourn your descent as much as any living thing.

But for now let me dwell on this warm moment,

and you,

full of lavender and light,

lifting yourself off

towards that next season.

The Cricket's Song

In Iowa, the cricket sings a harbinger's song of autumn. The fireflies have already packed their bags and left (there isn't a lonelier sight than a solo firefly in September). The next generation of cicada are deep in the ground. Box elder bugs gather in sunny patches for one last BIG family reunion before dispersing to their buggy netherlands. Only the crickets remain to play, like the quartet of musicians on the Titanic's deck, until the first hard frost signals the silence of a new season.

Listen tonight for the sound of the cricket. Hear the approach of fall.