Green Beetle

I saw a green beetle for the first time in my life. It was outside my front door, nestled between the corner of the doormat and the door frame. I was surprised at how emerald the green of its body was, how shiny and metallic. It had a tinge of blue at the edges. The kind of blue that you see when the sunlight reflects off a puddle of petroleum that has leaked onto the ground. The sheer size of the bug, comparable to the size of my thumb, repelled me. I quickly pushed the doormat against it and it flew off, whizzing angrily. The noise that sounded like a flying drone outside my window in the mornings. That’s what it was. I had confused it with a similar noise that a hummingbird’s wings make. I had thought a hummingbird was stopping by my balcony to poke around my mandevillas, but no, it was that metallic monster. 

The bug looked man-made, like a plastic toy painted with glittery green and blue paint. If I hadn’t acted so quickly in my repulsion to its size and unfamiliar appearance and instead observed its shiny back a little more closely, would I have felt at least some awe at this creature’s showy costume and the sternly rigid angles of its body? Possibly. My curiosity was piqued after all at our first encounter. But it was still so big. 

Nature is a fearful and wonderful presence when it takes you by surprise.