Sir David Attenborough, I Think I Love You
by RITA ORRELL
After lying in the cool dark sand, you rise, khaki pants soaking
wet, to show me the belly of a horseshoe crab,
spied on mating slugs, their bodies suspended by a strand of slime,
organs twisted in hermaphroditic ecstasy.
Because of you I pity the sad, short life of the mayfly, the unborn
victims of parasitic wasps,
admire the skill of beetles folding wings beneath elytra; the ants that
herd aphids, drink their sweet excretions.
I envy how when you snap your fingers broody cicadas try to make
love to you.