Beaver Pond

Gently we walk the path by beaver pond,
amid bracken and brush,
we are whirred by Egyptian-like plagues
of blue-eyed, winged invertebrates.

Not enough to break branch or bracken thorn—
to swath and swish o’er heads,
they encircle us,
encamp and are obsessed.

Burrowing and diving from on high—
insectile kamikazes,
gnat-stinging their way into
our all-too-exposed human frames.

For them, this is simply what a Mayday brings
by beaver pond.
We stomp on,
notwithstanding aerial assault,

and come upon ducks and geese on shimmering pond—
quacking, honking, swans whooping,
telling tales of spring’s new life beginning.

Beavers too, old and young, beavering,
back and forth repairing and renewing.

Then—
a change sprightly
issues radiant forth.

Upon entry of the catchers of fire:
dragonflies of majestic flame,
tau-emerald bodies—
swish, swirl—
shoving aerial aliens from our path,
letting us go unencumbered.

They move like guards-of-honor,
helicopter-wings flickering,
protecting us in Mayday’s sun
at beaver pond.

We too shimmer now—
no need for swish or swath,
no need to flinch—
we are shielded by regiment-like emerald flames.

They are, yes, yet-still
Herculean sentinels,
shimmering above us
along beaver pond.

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