Ode to Sphecius speciosus

[joel]

I stopped for a cicada at its death:
September fourth, some five mere minutes fore
eleven time-watch revolutions turned
this seven years in this millennium,
within the shadow border grass below
a somehow sapling oak, a breezeless morn.
It seemed at first the insect stood on end
and loudly; rigidly its wings would bend
the blades and sound a passion deftly torn
from war reports from far away. And though
it seemed alone and well, like helium
its high-pitched deathwheeze wrestled rose— I learned
its Jabok torment as, like ointments pour
on wounds, a wasp emerged on buzzard breath.