SILENT SEPTEMBER
All summer long there were no mosquitos,
which was rather nice, but no gnats either
and no bats, though bats have been few for years.
Lack of food, they say. No gnats, no bats,
no bees, no butterflies, no moths, no flies,
no crickets, no wasps, no lightning bugs,
no bugs generally. No phoebes.
Phoebes have been nesting here for years.
Now, they're gone.
Few dragonflies, and those few seem small,
anemic, not so spritely. No no see ums.
Here's a honeybee, plenty of pollen on its legs,
but dead, curled up, poisoned in its beeline.
The fish ain't jumping. Nothing to jump for.
No buzz of cicadas. No chorus of katydids.
A mild headache. A slight chemical smell.
I blame DuPont, Monsanto, Dow, their heirs
and assigns hiding in byzantine multinationals
passing chemicals from hand to bloody hand
in this petty pace to the last syllable
of court settlements and trumpery appeals
and silent nights with only the rumble
of jets overhead to upset the delicate
nerves of the loons, ignoring the cancer
of Rachel Carson.
The Midcoast Villager
Poem of the Week
September 18, 2025