My Black Beetle

A hand reached out something inside prevented the kindly act intended. The beetle, he continued though, with frantic, futile moves yet it was not to be. Flat on his chitin back, shiny and smooth, too smooth, forever rolling, and sometimes sliding, now making tiny noises, of incongruity. I wished him then, quite fervently, an obstacle which would permit by inborn true stability of character, the rescue so essential for survival. The minutes passed, the sun now having lost all interest in watching fruitless struggle, soon took the evening's leave, a frigid wind with promises of rain swept leaves and dust in endless circles to and fro, I thought of Anton Mesmer and his silly passes, both arms he used them with such earnestness, first drops fell from a neutral sky where masters of the universe reside, yet one black beetle still remained, left to his own incompetent devices. You'll drown, an inner voice began to chant, to him as well, he knew about his fate life-giving drops would fill his belly soon and like a bomb he would explode leaving a mess of jellied black and not a single memory behind. Decision made, I reached into this low-life's mad inferno, when, with a vulgar shriek a gust, with leisure on its wings, raced through as on a mission, upright, exhausted legs alive he stood and looked me in the eye, with tears of gratitude as if to say perhaps I will, one day repay the deed, it must have been the blindness of capitulation, a pinhead brain committing all resources to the end. If Gods are willing, may there be a helpful hand, if not a friendly breeze for all the beetles in their time of need.