Hose in hand, early evening
watering the feast of greenery

my garden goddess neighbor
has coaxed into fullness along

the driveway, when I see
a slender, lime green insect

hightail it up the vertical black
post. I belay the shower,

peer closely at the tiny folded
umbrella that has reached safety,

pausing—then poof!—inflating
into—could it be?—grasshopper,

its sharply angled back legs
poised for movement. I wait for

the jump, imagine our breaths
synchronizing, as it vaults

into midair, the mini gymnast
bounding into the bounty

of wisteria leaves, no doubt
sticking the landing once again

after another leap of faith—
one of hundreds it must make

without thought or reason
in this too-short season

of a moment wrapped into
a life.