their eyes glitter, jewel-red, from
the forest, a clattering cloud of sound, too,
after seventeen years of sleep, held
aloft by stained glass, many paned wings, forced out,
emerging from the earth to
eat and mate and die in quick
succession, leaving a feast for the birds
no time for any but the
essential--hatched, matched, and
despatched--such a little time, too, to
leave their mark, but still, they do, these
expedient creatures, their chorus swelling
in mechanical fervor before they
are silent again, these
Rip Van Winkles of insects, the next cycle
finding us greyer and, perhaps
harder of hearing, yet they will be the
same, an insect army, their ranks intent,
unrelenting, marching across lawns and
hedgerows, an invading force driven by
insect instinct
No comments:
Post a Comment