In the dry summer heat we run
through the tall yellow grass, scratchy
against our tanned legs. We catch caterpillars
in jars prepared with grassy habitats, and cup
grasshoppers in our hands as long as we dare.
“Watch out for dragonflies,” Bobby warns, as we
plot to catch every insect we see. “They can bite
the heads off bumblebees.”
Dragonflies skim over the surface of the pool.
The three of us duck under the water, yell
Dragonfly! as a warning when we see one coming.
Butterflies skirt and flutter along the edge of the house,
hover above the overgrown grass. The last grasshopper
is a small dry corn husk in my hands. It leaves a splotch
of brown in my palm. I throw it down and run. My Dad says
I probably scared it.
From now own, I am scared of grasshoppers.