The Hex

The hex is an ignoble insect,

burdened as it were with an ill-proportioned body,

fragile, venous wings with a grotesquely elongated thorax.

Born of muck and marl,

succored on filth and deterius.

They rise only as an adults

into an orgy of genetic propagation

before falling, as spent spinners

back to their watery origin in droves

to float away in great caravans of lifelessness, 

or to be crushed underfoot,

or smashed along roadsides.

Be not too swift though to condemn this humble creature

for which of us, as consummate as we may be

inspires such devotion as they 

among the slick-sided trout who gulp greedily for an emerging morsel?

Or who at their most self-indulgent can claim admiration more zealous

than that of the dragonfly or kingbird

who wait even unto the fading light

to pay their respects?

Who, but they, inspires the indefatigable pilgrimage of fly-fishers

with rod and reel in hand

to await their penultimate flight

late on a June eve?

Is not the rosy glow of the waning sun

an audience to their perseverance and homely charm?

Is not the rising moon theirs, by rights?

And which of us can with certainty

hope for a grander memorial than they,

filled not with perfunctory recitations and pleasantries

but rather the unfeigned celebration

of their divinely appointed purpose?

In the dreary bosom of winter

when the embers of the hearth grow cold

and the Herculean flight a mere instinctive glimmer, 

may we pull the covers closer still,

listen close for the ubiquitous gurgle of distant water,

and sing our praise 

for the bounty yet to come.