Impressions from a Forest

“Is it sad to camp in a grove of dead trees?” I ask.

“No,” he says, and he means it.

We think we see a specimen of the dreaded pine beetle, the one that’s done the dastardly deed. Whatever it is, it flies with its legs hanging straight down like one of those spacecraft on My Favorite Martian. Its antennae are a little bit longer than its body—creepy--and they remind me of curved, serrated knives. A whole lot of weird in a small package.

One lands on the table next to me. I slide my pen tip up under its head to see what it will do. I don’t really want to share the table with it, but I don’t want to hurt it either. I am in its space after all. Nothing happens. I slide the pen out. I think. It waits. I wait.

I slide the pen back over to its side of the table and gently touch one of its front legs. OK, that did it. It leaves, but it doesn’t just fly away like any other self-respecting bug. It takes a few slow steps toward the edge of the table and then lifts its wings and launches itself in the air, flying in its awkward, slow way over to the next little stand of almost-dead trees.

I guess we know who’s king of this jungle.