The Hidden Work of Beetles
With Music by Glyn Lehmann
When asked to speculate on
the composition of the universe,
J.B.S. Haldane is reported to have said:
The Creator had an inordinate fondness for stars.
And beetles.
Dear Ones,
Here is another bedtime story for you. As a special treat, please click on the player below to enjoy a gift of music from Glyn Lehmann and his wildly creative album, scatterlings, which helped inspire this tale.
atoms scatter/gather by Glyn Lehmann, 2025
Tonight, beneath a vault of stars,
five hundred quadrillion beetles
move upon the earth.
If you should stop one, rushing by and ask,
Where are you going in such a hurry?—
they will always answer:
Top secret.
On certain nights of the year,
in the hollow of the oldest Oak, when the evening primrose close their doors and all the hungry toads have fallen asleep, the beetles attend a meeting of the Scatterlings.
They follow the shining trails made by helpful snails, and moss glows faintly green wherever they step.
Scatterlings come from every corner of the forest, through the underground highways of root and stone, along deer paths starred with fungi, up from deep wells where the salamanders dream.
Each brings news of what they have done in quiet faithfulness.
Stag Beetle lifts his antlers, still dusty with heartwood:
Seven years I have eaten
sadness from the dying elm,
turning bitterness into sugar.
Tomorrow, morels fruit there,
soft as cake, sweet as grief transformed.
Lady Beetle, powdered with aphid dust, her spots still wet with dew, recounts:
The roses wept gray tears.
I stayed with them through the rains,
hunting, eating sorrow from their stems.
Now they bloom, red as dawn,
never knowing
the way they have been saved.
Milkweed Longhorn, with antennae pulsing like divining rods:
I read each leaf like braille,
telling the plant where sun will touch,
where the butterflies will need a nursery.
My whole body aches with care.
From deep inside a fallen log comes singing, while others join the assembly.
Horned Passalus is teaching her children the songs for stay, food, safe, and home—turning wood to milk with music. Their voices make the bark hum like a mother’s lullaby.
Fireflies hang lanterns of light from the oak’s ceiling, writing the old alphabet in their flight. The one that only beetles know.
Hercules Beetle carries a snail shell filled with rainwater.
June Bug brings pollen from the night-blooming Moonflower.
One flower, one night, one chance.
A young beetle, her wings still soft, asks:
Why does no one see our work?
The eldest firefly, who remembers when this oak was an acorn, writes in light:
Watch!
Lady Beetles Save the Roses
roses feed the bees,
the bees feed birds,
the birds plant seeds
to make tomorrow’s forest.
The elm’s sweet dying feeds
the mushrooms’ secret maps,
now every root will know
where to find its feast.
The milkweed, pruned precise,
will cradle butterflies
who carry golden dust
up to the bright blue skies.
The beetle songs become
their children’s songs, become
the forest’s lullaby:
we come in peace, in peace.
In peace.
Ah, says the young beetle, her wings catching moonlight, Love is our work.
Yes, says the Beech, Love is a tree carved with names.
The Oak listens. Its hollow trunk holds their secrets like a heart holds blood.
The meeting ends, as it has since the beginning of Time:
Each beetle touches antennae with another, a brief blessing, before the scatterlings skitter away: Ground beetles to their perfect hour, and Rose Chafers to their drowsy tumble through pollen. The Carrion beetles will keep turning endings into beginnings, while Tiger beetles race moonlight across the clay.
Four hundred thousand kinds,
each knowing exactly
what is theirs to do.
The young beetle finds a fallen Hickory, silver in the starlight. She takes one small bite, then curls beneath the bark to sleep. Tomorrow, she begins her seven years of chewing dark, making hardness soft, for a stranger she will never meet.
But tonight, even beetles must rest.
One by one, they find their sleeping places: under bark, in hollow stems, beneath the quilt of fragrant leaves.
Fireflies dim their lanterns to the faintest glow, like nightlights in the forest dark.
The stars hum, very quietly: Good work.
The beetles hum, half asleep: Good work.
The earth hums, deep and slow: Good work.
The hidden work continues as it must.
As it will.
But for now, the forest sleeps.
Good night, sleep tight.
Friends,
I want to express my grateful thanks to Glyn Lehmann for his generosity in sharing his music here. When I’m hiking, I often think what a miracle it is to hear nature sounds from Glyn’s backyard in Australia, as I walk here, in a North Carolina forest. The internet can make impossible and beautiful things come to be. I hope you will explore Glyn’s catalog of wonder and sonic goodness.
Wherever you are in the world, may this story and music fill you with a quiet sense of reverence for life and for the joy of being here together, each in our hidden work.
xo Ann
You can learn more about Glyn and his musical offerings at his website
Download his music on Bandcamp
And subscribe to his Substack newsletter By Nature
I’ll leave you with a video of Glyn’s song, I am the Earth, being performed by The Kids’ Choir of London, directed by Richard Frostick.
Every facet of this offering is edifying. I feel it on a cellular level. You are doing something special with your work here. And this particular piece begs to be a children's book.
Beautiful! I love the magical realism of this story!