Winging It
by Boyd Bauman

The chinch bugs were biblical
in the milo that year,
tearing through leaf and stalk,
devouring a swath
through the heart
of Nemaha County.

Loathe to inhale pesticide all month,
Dad drove to the Co-Op
and brought back large fabric bags
crawling with ladybugs.

Yet Coccinellidae arrived in stasis,
chilled and drowsy,
red mother-of-pearl buttons
fastened to the bags
and each other.

No recipe for release,
so we shook and stirred,
Dad finally plunging
his laborer's arms in
to the elbows
and ladling them out.

They coated his farmer's tan
and clung to the hair,
finally awakening to the sun.
Dad laughed as they began to tickle
and move en masse,
his arms winging up and down
in rhythm with the opening and flutter
of a thousand tiny wings.

There he was,
grinning and flapping
on terrace top.
On a summer afternoon
in the middle of a milo field,
my earthbound father
took flight.



Originally published in The I-70 Review  

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