The Mantis

She holds her forelegs up in front of her, and she waits.

The naturalist, at your elbow, without turning: Don't. She'll look at you, and then you'll have to say something.

You look anyway. She turns her small triangle of a head, and nothing else of her moves. Her eyes are on you.

Well, says the naturalist. Go on.

You tell her you are sorry to have bothered her. She turns her head back to the window. That is more than most manage, he says. Try the firefly. Across the room, on the open book, it stands on its pin with its small lantern dark.