Bug on a Leaf by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

Thirteen-year-old Jeremy was on what is now called ‘the spectrum’ – the autism spectrum to be more precise. However, his neurodevelopmental disability was on the milder side. In fact, it was so mild that he was able to attend class at the nearby makeshift schoolhouse, still on the grade level that he should be for his age: 7th.

As lanky, dark-haired, tan-skinned Jeremy descends the wooded ravine to Chemise Creek (about 4 miles – 6.4 km – SE of Shelter Cove on the northern coast of California) on an unusually sunny and warm Saturday afternoon in June of 1947, he thinks about what his mid-30-ish, Welsh American, female teacher had said the day before. ‘You can begin your first nature poem by going out in the woods and examining something – something that catches your eye; something that arrests your attention will make for a starting point. Just ask yourself: What thoughts do I have about this particular object, animal, plant, or scene? Now, write them down using as few words as possible.’

Jeremy is now almost upon the shady brook when he notices a maritime earwig on a laurel leaf. The dark-brown-with-pumpkin-orange-splotches insect is not moving. He quietly sits down on some moss and extracts a folded piece of paper and pencil from his back jeans pocket.

The earwig suddenly advances a few paces. And then stops. All of the earwig’s body is still atop the dark green leaf. Glad he/she didn’t run off on me. Hmmm … Well, what should I write? Guess I need a title first. What would be a good title? Hmmm … I know …

Jeremy then begins to write on the unlined, creased-in-sixths, off-white piece of paper.

Title: Bug on a Leaf

There was this bug on a leaf.

Not sure if the bug saw me first.

This bug was an earwig.

Not sure if the earwig knew that.

This earwig was eating the edge of the leaf.

Not sure if the leaf was resisting.

The earwig moved slightly.

Not sure why, but …

There was this bug on a leaf.

Not sure if the bug sees me writing.

This bug seems to have nothing to do, but eat.

Not sure if the bug stops to think, but sometimes it stops.

This earwig is now eating the other edge of the leaf.

Not sure if the leaf can do anything.

The earwig stops again.

Not sure why, but …

Jeremy then hears his part-Yurok mother calling him. “Time to come back home, son. Dinner will be ready in five minutes. Don’t wait too long and let it get cold.” Hope he is alright. Kinda worried. Jim [a neighbor] saw a black bear the other day. Hope he didn’t wander off too far. Sure hope that he didn’t go down to the steep drop-off [to the Pacific Ocean] again. Please, dear God, no! Not there! / ‘Well, it’s time for me to go, little earwig. Watch out for winged predators, as well as those on foot. You know, you really might want to consider hiding under that leaf for your personal safety and well-being.’ Wonder if it can hang upside-down. If so, for how long? And if so, can it eat while hanging upside-down? Must remember to ask the teacher on Monday. Wonder what Mrs. Morgan [Jeremy’s schoolteacher] is doing right now. Wonder what her first poem was like. How did it start? What was the first line? What was the first word? Bet it was ‘The’. What was the subject of her poem? Will she like mine? Hmmm … Maybe not. Probably should revise it later. Maybe after I eat dinner. Yeah. Must not forget.

“Jeremy! It’s time to come home, son. C’mom, let’s go, boy.” It is his originally-from-southern-Louisiana, Creole American father’s voice now. He is about 80 feet (24.4 meters) away. “Supper’s ready, son! Let’s wrap it up, and get back to the house. Your mother has cooked your favorite food.” Did mom really cook abalone? Maybe dad is just saying that to get me back to the house faster.

“Ok, dad,” Jeremy shouts. “I’m coming back now.” Can tell that dad and mom are concerned about me. Bet they feared that I got lost. Or fell in the creek. Again. / So relieved to hear his reply. Glad he’s ok.

“Thanks, son.” Dad’s voice sounds different. Maybe he caught a cold. Or, maybe it’s the effect of all these redwood trees, deflecting and rebounding the sound all around. Hmmm … Not sure, but there was this bug on a leaf. Oh gosh, that line is now repeating in my brain. Is the earwig trying to communicate with me telepathically? Hmmm … Such crazy thoughts I seem to have. Do the other kids have such thoughts? I wonder. Probably not. I’m different – the weird one. But, they seem so strange to me, always wanting to get so close to each other. And touch each other! Why?! Gosh, I hate close groupings. Cindy [a red-haired classmate] sure is cute. She is shy and withdrawn like me. Will she like my poem when I read it aloud? 

Jeremy would safely arrive at the log cabin six minutes later. His mom had indeed prepared an abalone dish, and he relished every bite. Ah, this is so good!

Later in his bedroom, he unfolds his poem. He reads it to himself eight times. He thinks about making some small changes, but then deems it fine as is. ‘Best to go with the first impression.’ Dave [a fellow classmate] said that. He seems smart. Probably good advice.

The next morning, a foggy no-sun day, Jeremy walks back down to where he was just 19 hours prior. He remembers exactly where the laurel plant is. The leaf has been nibbled away a bit, and the earwig is gone. Wonder where it went. Did it survive the night? Is it on another leaf right now … munching away?

An an-analogical Anna’s hummingbird then catches Jeremy’s eye. It is hovering off to his right above an evergreen shrub. He quietly creeps closer to see … the small, olive-green-tinted, fuchsia-throated, black-headed bird dart down … and pluck an earwig with its long, narrow bill. And quickly fly away. Wow! Was that the earwig that I saw yesterday? Could that earwig have walked that far? I guess it could have. But, that was probably not the same one. I wonder what that earwig thought right when it got pinched in that bird’s beak? Probably not much thinking for such a simple creature. Probably more of a reflex. Just a sudden flash realization: it’s over.

Back in his room, Jeremy extracts his poem sheet once again. He ponders an addition. Yeah, need to add a third stanza after what I saw a half-hour ago. It will round it out nicely. Maybe.

After a rustling sound outside his window ceases, he begins writing below the last line. 

There was this bug on another leaf.

Not sure if this bug saw me yesterday.

This bug was the same species of earwig.

Not sure, though, if this was the same exact one.

This earwig didn’t see the hummingbird overhead.

Not sure if this earwig had a chance.

This earwig was the chosen one.

Not sure why, but …

He then reads the whole, newly expanded poem over and over and over for eleven minutes. Yeah, I think it’s better now. Maybe. Well, I’ll find out tomorrow.

Monday was cool and clammy. As were Jeremy’s palms when he got up to read his poem. He cleared his throat and commenced his recitation.

“Hello. The title of my poem is Bug on a Leaf. There was this bug on a leaf. Not sure if the bug saw me first. This bug was an earwig. Not sure if the earwig knew that. [some giggling] This earwig was eating the edge of the leaf. Not sure if the leaf was resisting. The earwig moved slightly. Not sure why, but … There was this bug on a leaf. [a few sighs] Not sure if the bug sees me writing. This bug seems to have nothing to do, but eat. [a lone laugh] Not sure if the bug stops to think, but sometimes it stops. This earwig is now eating the other edge of the leaf. Not sure if the leaf can do anything. The earwig stops again. Not sure why, but … [some groans] There was this bug on another leaf. Not sure if this bug saw me yesterday. This bug was the same species of earwig. Not sure, though, if this was the same exact one. This earwig didn’t see the hummingbird overhead. Not sure if this earwig had a chance. This earwig was the chosen one. Not sure why, but … Well, that’s it; that’s the end of my poem. Thank you for listening.”

After a few long seconds, there is a smattering of slow, restrained, just-out-of-politeness handclaps, along with many odd looks. Though, Cindy smiles. Mrs. Morgan bites her lip. Jeremy sits back down.

Down at Chemise Creek, Saturday’s earwig is on an adjacent leaf, gnawing away. :.::..:::..::.:.::..:. [Translation: Where did that human go?]