I’m fascinated by the dying beetles, red backed and spotted with their wings still. In the warmth, they spin in the open and die in the warmth. They’re on the sills of the windows when the curtains hang back. They’re on the ground, the edges of the rug, little spaces between grooves. I can’t help but wonder at the scoops of them laying in piles. And then when I see them living, their wings flitting and cooing in the window’s warmth, I’m glad they enjoy the sun.