Member Poem

The Lone Katydid

I vividly remember,
on the evening when September
had slid into October,
the air as cold and sober
as The Dipper’s glittering light,        
from somewhere high amid
an oak, a katydid
spoke from a dying leaf:
“Autumn is a thief!
With a single wintry gust
it turned my kin to dust.  
Why do I rattle on
when all of them are gone,
when I’ll soon be toothsome prey
for some bat, or when the bite
of another cold snap brings
icy shackles to my wings?”
The insect’s doleful tones
seemed to quiver all my bones.
What could you tell a bug
to soothe it? With a shrug,
I continued on my way
down that trail as dim and shady
as a blackbird’s dusky hue,
and wondered if that katy did
or didn’t have a clue
that he had been listened to.