Depressed By A Book Of Bad Poetry I Walk Toward An Unused Pasture And Invite The Insects To Join Me

 Relieved, I let the book fall behind a stone.

I climb a slight rise of grass.

I do not want to disturb the ants
Who are walking single file up the fence post,
Carrying small white petals,
Casting shadows so frail that I can see through them.

I close my eyes for a moment and listen.

The old grasshoppers
Are tired, they leap heavily now,
Their thighs are burdened.

I want to hear them, they have clear sounds to make.

Then lovely, far off, a dark cricket begins
In the maple trees.

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