The Scarab
Scuttle, scuttle, click, click
Shining black moves on dull black
As the scarab skitters into a nick
In the rocks, where it is too hard to track.
Deeply it burrows its little self
Farther in the desert rock
The sun beating down on its tiny shelf
The scarab tick ticks, waiting like a clock.
It wriggles its twitching head back outside
But soon again from the sun it will hide.