To a Pine Seed Bug, October 23

The sun's adieu is hard
on you, your steps slowed,
you carefully claw along
this southern wall, raw wind
falling across your narrow back
and blowing a faint scent of evergreen
to me,

in the wet cold, as dull leaves damply
flop to the frost-wracked garden. Tell me,
What will you do with your mottled dun crust
to escape the autumn's lust?