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Saturday was a teaching day, and heat was already rising off the sweaty grass.  But as I made my way from the car, my ears were pricked by the sound of wings. Odd that it hadn’t occurred to me, but until that moment, and yet I’m fairly certain I hadn’t seen a June bug all summer. But on the lawn, they were swarming. I noticed a female student running from them, and I laughed. I reminded her that they wouldn’t sting, and at least they weren’t cicadas. [I recall an evening drive with my window down when two got into my car, and I thought several times of abandoning it on the roadside]. Further along, a couple of guys were fumbling, trying to tie one to a length of thread. Though tempted to scold, I suspected the string would give out before the bug.

The song permeated the river of humidity, and it was a good day.


and june bugs
made their plans
a lazy drive
as heat to wear
in sleeves of golden grain
above the last reminder
of a season
nearly done –
when brothers
dug their heels into the mud
and dared another
life to dream
of will and circumstance
a leaving split apart
by destinies
the choosing
was for nothing
but the choice to understand –
the cost
betrayed by living
as Saturday
to june

. . .