GRASSHOPPERS

Catching grasshoppers was my chore on

Sunday afternoon fishing trips.

Tobacco juice, my father called it,

When I held out my stained fingers and grimaced,

Because I thought the brown liquid was grasshopper guts.

He smiled and took the green-brown insect from my hands,

Speared it with a hook and threw it into the shallow water of

The Little Pond, the red and white bobber floating

Without moving on that August, windless day because

Rainwater ponds don’t have currents until

Frogs, fish, or storms break the surface.

I went back to work, walked about the hay field;

Watched the grasshoppers’ high, broad jumps;

Watched to see where they landed in the tall grass,

Tried to catch another one in the palms of my hands;

My eyes strained against the glare of the sun,

Strained against the insects’ camouflage,

Strained to see the slightest motion in the grass.

Not knowing that tobacco juice is a defense,

Not knowing they wait for nine months to hatch,

Not knowing they can catapult into the air, but

Thinking that they could jump farther than I could ever reach.

© cmheuer, 2017