Shadow Play

Horned beetles patrol 
the topmost branches of the fig, 
late sun occasionally glancing off 
their helmets. Surrounding fruit 
near bursting out of their skins, 
they make short work of the sweet 
pulp. At the highest levels, no 
prisoners— barely a carcass 
drops to the ground. Even so, 
I know this is merely one 
of the ways nature cannot help 
being true to what it is.   
We want to say this is ours,
while all of us are caught
in this theatre of limits.