On a branch above, a bad typist
composes, revises, and swallows
 
a green beetle, one of a brood
which is slowly killing the elm
by burrowing under its bark.
 
Below, I stare at a coming storm
as beetles scratch out their livings
 
but never once shoot rockets
into a July night, nor blight
our garden with plastic bottles.
 
And such a gymnast, the downy
woodpecker! Her art requires
every fiber of bill and skull
 
and feathered frame as she
twists and flips and hammers out
her syntax of detection and dispatch.