Daily Haiku — Jun 16, 2026

This one earns its quiet authority by starting big and ending small. The first line reads almost like a proverb or a warning label, all sweeping consequence — man shifts nature — and then the poem narrows, breath by breath, until it's resting on insects. That funnel shape is the whole craft achievement: scale collapsing into specificity, the way real ecological thought actually has to work if it's honest.

There's no season word here, but there's a season feeling anyway, something like the hush before a construction crew arrives, or the pause a gardener takes before turning soil. The mood is careful rather than mournful.

What rewards a second read is the word "even" — it's doing quiet moral work, revealing that the smallest insects were almost forgotten, almost excluded from consideration, and the poem itself performs the corrective by naming them last, where they'll be remembered.