The desert. A few degrees before of the approaching dawn. Starlight fades and the blackness of the sky bleaches into blues, browns and greys, slowly washed out by the light of day.
The scarab (“dung” beetle) – broadly indifferent to day or night – is on the move again. He rolls his boulder full of turdy goodness nimbly across the sands. Stops, surveys the terrain, inspects his burden, patting in uncompacted strands, and carries on. Wading through the dust.
The sky now hums with the suggestion of morning light and the ridges on his hard, black shell begin to glisten. Dimly, but definitely.
Such is life.