Not Our Era

A hot, arrid wind out of the east loosens seed in the withering field and shakes the brittle grass.


Ninety again today, and no clouds.


The ground is hard and bulbous under our moccasins. The dogs pant on their sides in the shade.


We would call this a drought. Yet the heat suits the bulk of life around us.

We see a monarch, newly emerged, drying its wings. We see its larval stage chewing under a milkweed leaf. And on the next stalk, the large milkweed bugs are gathering.


All this in a glance without taking a step.


So much happens we know next to nothing about.


We are reminded this is not the Age of Men, but the Age of Insects.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved