The little beetle scurries
under the boles of concrete trees,
has glass for leaves.
It peers up through
half-lit branches that are rungs for it to climb -
A life is above, more meaningful than its tattered ball of dung -
For there the elusive
sun shines, that it has pushed
through winter to the
Spring - and it is gaining size and weight, strengthening and the little beetle, job
Done, can go to ground until the fall of winter leaves wakes him to begin again.
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