The insect that man is

With the height of hallowed autumn
The growing nakedness of trees
the sudden chill in the acres with a descending north breeze
Every insect from trunk grubs to the ones the size of fleas

Pale sky dims against the bark
of haunting tall poplars and squeezed between prickly evergreens
The shady yard and cabin within the treelines, windows humid longing for people
All of the residents were out with last days of sun, hunting insects on the run

Paths that seemed so random though followed each beetle exactly
Shiny wings and sudden scuttering their eyes were aglow with love
What brought them to love lively small creatures and so compelled?
It was their farewell to light and warmth as a nearing winter swelled

It was not the bug itself that drew sway
Nor for food or medicine did they become things of play
They were just small tokens of hope before frosts and blizzards grey
Before men wore their warm bungalows everyday
 that they'd soon thatch in such caprichous methodical ways

Collecting firewood not a twig left on the forest floor
For soon snow will have the land around the rich and all over the poor
The cold mouth of winter pulling legs off mammals in the freeze
Pushing the predictable human into his ground nest for relief

Each footstep made into late october would be the scrunch cackle
of an early hungry winter
One that demands more months, shamelessly harrasing the seasons
 one that boldly signed death warrants with the arctic mighty
One that would test the gums of the boreal forest, a hungry winter quite

So yes knowing this in their bones
the humble humans picked at insects
Before the little creatures went into their subterranean chrysalises
The predictable rituals that men so pride themselves on most
Obeying daylight like slaves yet finding the negligence to boast