GNAT DANCING On one of those days between the end of summer And fall's beginning, When the afternoon sun has come to rest On the brown-shouldered corn, the gnats rise up, Rise up and swarm in the stillness of the air, Once more before the coming of the cold, Just as they have always done. My neighbor leans against the old tractor, A Co-op E3, made in Canada, 1947. The gnats are crowding around his head, Luminous in the late sunlight, Every detail of their giddy movement clear at a distance, Until he lifts his hand to brush them away, Saying with mild exasperation, "They're awful thick!" I suppose we also fly in the face of things, Gnatlike, not always knowing why. We plant the crop or breed the best of the stock and wait, Parting the tassels of the corn, Palpating swollen bellies in expectation of the day. Something ancient drives a man to gamble with a seed, In the pitch of the dirt or the dark of the womb, Engaging gnats, always the gnats, Persistent, without apology, Rising to their separate splendor. -- Thomas A. Orr, "Hammers in the Fog," Restoration Press Indianapolis, IN (1995), posted with permission. Tom was born in Bangor, ME, and grew up in the hill country of western MA. He moved to Indianapolis in 1972, spent 20 years in human services, since 1986 has lived on a small farm in Shelby Co, where he raises rabbits and poultry. He is a member of the Writers' Center of Indianapolis. His Scotland to Northern Ireland ancestors have a connection to Orr Island off the coast of Maine.