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.