GNATS

The lights are on the apple trees
At the little field below the Perkin's place
Glowing green along the crooked branches black with age.
A seasonal white carpet covers the bare ground
For this occasion the miniature new blooms
Closed tight over the soft greenery
Or already blown the fragile petals curled
And fallen away exposing orange seed.
A solitary flower here and there 
Makes a surprise appearance with a purple face.

I clean the brush at camp and meet them
On the way up navigating the uneven terrain
With plastic ski poles for walking sticks.
A published artist of natural subjects on film
With awkward manners I get through the greetings
By an exaggerated display of high spirits.
She's new with a straight boyish figure.
Later on I see them as bright spots of unfamiliar color
Near deep woods and point out a favorite beauty spot
For them but they're already turning back
As she's allergic and is bothered by bugs.

Alone with nothing I lay down head cradled on arm
Looking into the old orchard rimmed by pines
Itself the sole reminder now of human presence here.
Beyond the hollow ring like ocean in my ear
I find a distinct pattern of whirrs and clicks
And an occasional loud song with a full pleasant melody
Each one a unique call to another of the same species.
An ordinary robin climbs out on one of the gnarled limbs.
I remember a broadwinged hawk lives here
Circling motionless in the air currents
High overhead and I look for it again.

A variety of small insect populates the air
Close to the ground dancing the clumsy maneuvers
Of a brief sexual phase zigzagging hovering
And landing occasionally on my skin and clothing.
Harmless I observe their sluggish movements
And when I brush at one without thinking
The plump body rolls lifelessly over my hand.
An individual lights on the scrap of paper I'm writing on
And won't fly off when I blow or shake it.
Unable to stand erect it rests on its side
One of the oversize wings pinned underneath.
The abdomen is coated with eggs in a sticky medium.

Water in a stagnant pool collects below the culvert
And rings in concentric circles appear at random on it
Spreading out in waves until they dissipate.
Spiders skim the top in short motions without a trace.
Tiny flies crisscross over from end to end
And a pair of them couple in midair
Falling and resting on the surface wings fluttering
Then lift off as one in cumbersome flight together.
An irridescent oily slick along the edge
Reaches a purple arm out to the center.
Oak leaves from last year line the bottom
And gas bubbles form on them rising and breaking in the air.
Old fern are just brown sticks with brittle fruit.

The marital counselor advises her to keep me informed
About relations issues from her perspective.
She hands me a clipping from the Times--KIDDIE RAPE IN TULSA.
Three runaway girls walk into a setup at a motel
Along with a gang of thirty-five men and boys.
No arrests for weeks. Hotline callers have mixed opinions.
There are few additional details.
While I'm polishing this they're out there in the rain
In yellow slickers walking close together
On the highway shoulder waving their colored sticks
The white snow baskets shining above the ice points.
Next day house guests gone he's by himself
Dragging and stacking up the fallen debris
From the the most destructive ice storm of the century.

Jay NY 5/1/98