One most ferocious robber in the pond World, observes a zoologist, is a slim, Streamlined insect called the Dytiscus larvae: Lying in ambush on a water grass He suddenly shoots at lightning speed To his prey (or anything moving or smelling Of ‘animal’ in any way, a fat tadpole, for Instance), darts underneath it, then quickly Jerks up his head, grabs it in his jaws Injects his poisonous glandular secretion into it Dissolves its entire inside into a liquid soup And sucks as it swells up first, and then gradually Shrinks to a limp bundle of skin until it finally falls From his fatal kiss. Very few animals
According to the observer Even when starved to death would attack Let alone eat an equal-sized animal Of their own species
But the Dytiscus does, just as man does
Within or without a pond
Yuan Changming edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Yuan in Vancouver. Credits include Pushcart nominations, poetry awards as well as publications in Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17), & BestNewPoemsOnline, among others.