By Vita Forest
I was idling in the traffic on the narrow two-lane road through the bush, thinking of places I had to be and people I had to see, when a tiny pale green triangle caught my attention. A little planthopper bug floated by, like a tiny ship with a tiny green sail (but no owl or pussycat in sight). It landed on my windshield and stood almost horizontal on the hot glass. The breeze from the bush blew through the car, as I watched the bug rocking back and forth on its tiny white legs with their deep bend at the knee. It seemed to be dancing to the music – a Scarlatti sonata for keyboard playing on the radio set to Classic FM. Swaying on those tiny knees, as delicate as an eyelash. Could it feel the music through the glass? My sap-speckled windscreen was transformed into a translucent dance floor. In time with the string section, the bug strolled leisurely across the glass in a long, sweeping line, and my world narrowed and slowed to this tiny creature waltzing across the window to the accompaniment of Scarlatti.
I noticed the paleness of its wings, paler than the deep verdant green of the ferns curling in the shadows on the roadside, cooler than the grey-green of the eucalypts above us – white with just a drop of apple-green mixed well in. Its spidery legs flickered forward, and I took a breath before the traffic moved on, and my mind returned to those places I needed to be and those people I needed to see.
Thank you little green bug!