The Flightless Fog Drinker
has a name in Latin
it does not need to learn,
lives in the Namib Desert
where heat is so hot
it seems itself may burn.
Tis but a flightless beetle
without thin, transparent wings.
Under the dunes, in its sandy den,
butts its head and backward flings.
Bat blind in its lightless cell,
flexes feelers, parched and dry,
until it scurries up a tunnel,
to sit under night time sky.
On top of a dune it waits
to feel less hot, near to roast,
and faces the breeze and drifts of fog
from the far Skeleton Coast.
Allows fog to wet its scales,
slowly slurps it down like dew,
and then scuttles to its den in haste,
swelled with its fresh foggy brew.
O, to be a flightless fog drinker,
though without spirit or brain,
to be such an instinctive insect,
may not be a thinker,
but knows no sorrow or pain.