Two Beetles
Christmas Eve's Day. Read Gillian Clark's poem, 'The Christmas Wren.' Cleaned the house, wrapped gifts. Lisa's mom arrived in the afternoon. The four of us cooked and watched a movie and played some dice.
I photographed, early in the day, two small beetles, both dead, that had been found in my office, hoping they could be identified, hoping (also) that they were not feeding on specimens kept there.
The wing sheaths, the elytra are not completely shut like obstructed cupboard doors. One of the beetle's final acts must have been flight, or the attempt at flight. The membranous wing tips protrude, a bit of an embarrassment for the living onlooker.
It's pebbled back, hunched shoulders and tucked head, its six legs clutching its antennae beneath its body, take on a recognizable aspect, a penitent perhaps, or simply the wish for better circumstances, say an open window and a way to escape. Smaller than a grain of rice, its suffering was on the same scale with any other of the living.
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