image from pixels.com
poem submitted to '1496" poetry contest, Brian Strand, sponsor, August 26, 2026.
A beetle begins its shift where the day left off~ at the edge of a stone it has moved before. It tests the surface first, tapping once with an antenna, then proceeds, lifting each leg deliberately as though the ground requires confirmation. A pebble blocks its path. It pauses, gives a soft scrape, nudges it half an inch then continues, the adjustment noted only by the beetle itself. On bark, its carapace catches the a pale pull of light~ a thin, ancestral shimmer that recalls the long night its kind has always known. It inspects a fallen leaf, turning it slightly to read the underside~ a task completed nightly, never hurried, never skipped. By dawn, nothing looks changed, though the beetle has worked every inch of its small world. And yet the dark feels steadier even in our quiet daily labors~ minute corrections that keep the hours aligned, and meaningful until the first pale light lifts the edges of the day and carries work forward.
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