The Language of Beetles

 

 The Language of Beetles   Beetles are curiously attracted to me, perhaps I am the beetle beacon. Perhaps I am a guidepost. About four years ago I found one hanging from the screen door of my rear porch, been waiting there all night and I stood there, like I knew his purpose. I stood there because a day earlier and fifteen miles away a large stag beetle (the same kind as on my door) flew directly into my chest and fell to the ground with a thud, before shaking himself off and flying away. And so I stood in my doorway with a glint of recognition. Ever since each summer beetles seem to make their way to me. Maybe I am their king, or pauper. But I do not speak the language of beetles and so I do not know,

if they praise or they protest.

In Sumaria

a beetle meant death.

In ancient Egypt,

they foretold

longetivity

and good fortune.

Today, this afternoon under a scorching sun on our outdoor patio a beetle buzzed me, then fell into the sour cream. I could have killed him, but felt something overwhelming forcing my hand the other way. The supernatural? Perhaps God told me "don’t harm this one." I don’t know why, I am no saint, no Cyril. And so, I washed him off gently, and completely. And placed him on a leaf where he ate, famished.