Tiny insects are still alive in the dry grass
of late October, sketched so finely
I can scarcely see them, a brown or black
apostrophe dashed in the air, a quiver,
less than a breath, on the back of my hand.
One scratches a tune, and the notes waver
behind me on the hillside.

Do they know what’s coming, can they
feel the shift in the air, do the clouds
whisper to them that death draws near?
And do they believe? Is this some poet
behind me, singing his own elegy,
hoping someone will remember?