I prefer the word being to the word
insect. Or the word bug. Haven’t you heard
the cicadas drumming out their rhythm
on their tymbals, your foot tapping with them?
I’m not asking about hearing the wings
of the butterflies, swimming in the air
around the bird-bath – and I say “swimming”
because of the stroke they gave us – out there
in the yard, where the bath holds old fruit rinds
meant to tempt them to arrive and make home
here, to share their space until my son finds
them, noiseless compared to the honeycomb
that draws a comparable crowd. A Zen master
might hear that, but not us. Don’t consider
the possibility of hearing them.
But others, say crickets, bring a rhythm
to your heart that accompanies your being –
that being being the music of their being.