A Pulsing


In the dusk,
a nearby bush harbors
the call of a lacewing.

A first sign of fall –
a change-signaler.

Incessant –
calling for hours
without pause.

Throbbing heart-like,
comforting, assuring,
quiet, muffled, yet
penetrating.

More felt than anything.
Soft, persistent, mysterious.

Slowed by the
cool evening air –
four, green, transparent,
veined wings vibrate.

A slow ancient song
is given birth.

Always curious –
I pause to count
the pulsing calls.

48 each minute.

Same as my heart beat
at rest.

                         -Clem Nagel