A sticky subject this old husk,
Once a shelter for the insect,
Our meeting was so very brusque,
Not so easy this mutual respect.
I wonder does he want revenge,
With cheeping sounds so strange?
Smash him with rock from stonehedge?
But, his kin cover all the range.
His cloud has that swarming noise,
It covers earth, an ugly rug,
Enough to make me lose my poise,
As if laughing from his old mug.
Seasons change, comes the frost,
He will be gone from the scene,
Winds will scatter, husks are tossed,
Old seeds planted will return the green.
Francis Conlon is a retired and recovering teacher. For the past 20 years, he has worked as a seasonal river ranger and boat inspector at Yampa River State Park in northwest Colorado. He has published in the local Valley Voice and in Westward Quarterly. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.