SESTINA SATURDAY: A Sketchy Offering

Sing gaudeamus; notice them and watch
Their movements and their natures when they're still.
There's much they can reveal; and careful eyes
May linger long on details. Just those wings
May fascinate with their venation, form
And color, all together in one line.

A kind of prayer it is, within my line,
Observing insects is. I keep a watch
For them where'er I go and form
A judgment of a place based on what still
Is there, take my delight in what takes wing
Around me, an intruder in their eyes.

Minute and captivating, how my eyes
Are strained to take in each and ev'ry line
Of these small aliens among us. Wing
And tarsa, spiracle, cerci - just watch
Each tiny miracle emerge, and still
There's more to see within this strange life form.

My love for them takes on, now, this new form:
I sketch one ev'ry day. Before my eyes
My pencil conjures them, though I am still
A duffer at this art. Each shaky line
That firms up is an offering. I watch
This happen e'en as all my thoughts take wing.

That entropy increases, says this wing
Beneath my gaze, must be a lie. This form
So intricate and tiny; the innards of a watch
Are not more orderly. These compound eyes
Assembled of mere proteins, all in line
Embody order. Hush now, and hold still.

As yet I still must work from just a still,
Unchanging photograph. Gone are the wings,
Just eggs and nymphs sleep underground. Each line
I make is secondhand, but soon each form
Will be there right before my own two eyes
In nature; all I'll have to do is watch.

Till then I must keep watch through the long, still
And wintry chill. My eyes long for those wings.
For now I am content to form these lines.

November

The trees are naked in November sun,
Shed leaves are dry and clatter through the street;
Cool browns, dull greys, some golds but only one
Bright hue relieves the muted palette. Sweet,
The year is ending. Dormancy prevails.
Yet deep inside each thing is closely held
That which against all chills' attacking fails.
Not death but strength tones down the colors. Quelled,
Then, should be any talk of loss, ennui
Or sadness. Beauty sometimes takes on stark,
Surprising forms if one has eyes to see.
It's there throughout these days, e'en in the dark.
Take time today; go outside and admire
The bold tenacity that guards the fire.

In Which I Watch A Strange Convention From The Sidelines (And No, It Is Not Bacon-Con)

I really just don't understand the birds!

Cheyenne's entire population of

American Tree sparrows, or two-thirds

Of it at least, are, for all love,

Now congregated tight in my backyard.

What's drawn them here to me? I cannot guess.

I simply watch them hopping, jostling hard

Against each other in the grass -- unless

The brand-new chilliness has caused

A mass die-off of insects? Winter's change

Makes these birds switch from bugs to seeds. I've paused

Now in this writing because something strange

Just happened: they've all flown up to my fence,

Then flown back to my lawn again. What sense?

In Which I Ponder April's Limited Backyard Entomology

Boisea trivittata is the sole

Bug visitor I've seen around my home

Thus far who's made appearance. I control

My disappointment, thus far, as the loam

Is mostly frozen yet; still under frost

Is all my lawn and garden. And these bugs

Are still a nice diversion for no cost

(No cable needed, and no need for drugs).

Box Elder bugs are what you prob'ly know

Them as; they're black with rims of red

Like piping on their jackets. They've no show

Or flashiness about them, nor much dread.

They're harmless to the struggling daffodils

Whose bed they share. They're simple, with no frills.

In Which I Enjoy My Easily Amused Birdie Brain

American Tree Sparrows like to hang

Around the cheap tube feeder just outside

My window, and they, too, like to harangue

Me when the feeder's empty, though they hide

When I come out to fill it. Once a day

At least, I find they've eaten all, or spilled

The seed I've  poured inside it. I obey

Their shrill demands, because I'm really thrilled

To watch them so cavort where I can see

Them at their birdie doings all day long.

I know the show they put on's not for me

Expressly, but I ask you, what is wrong

With staring out my window, oh, for hours?

When spring comes then I'll also watch the flow'rs.

This Spring At My New House Will Be Especially Interesting

At my new house, we have made up a game,
Regarding all the flora of my yard,
Consisting of attempting just to name
The shrubs and plants that come 'neath our regard.
Spring won't be here for a short while to come
To tell us if we're right or if we're wrong.
A few of them defy us, and then some
Are myst'ries such that we're not sure the strong
Swift pulse of life still surges through them, or
If they are dead and need removed. Perhaps
Some lilacs, maybe currants are in store.
I hope that one's a crabapple. There are gaps
'Tween what I hope and what I'll have at last,
But that's my fun for now, and it's a blast.