Wally Swist

It is elegantly furled
          as if it were a broad leaf curled
                    into a bright green body with

a tail. Its head is cocked and its
          antennae are splayed, perhaps,
                    not so much in consternation

as in consideration of what
          to do next. Its four lime green
                    legs attach themselves to storm

window glass, as if it is in
          perpetual mid-leap, inside-
                    looking-out of the half-lifted

storm window, that accommodates
          the air conditioner. When I first
                    saw it, I thought it was on

the outside of the glass, which it
          may have been, but now it is
                    on the inside of the glass, and

if a grasshopper could be said
          to be keening, then that is what
                    it is doing. I look out at it

from where it rests on the clear
          pane, the deep green leaves
                    of a maple in full view, and

beyond that the sunnier
          green of the open field before
                    the windbreak’s hedgerow green.