Bug Poem

They swarm, head high
when I’m standing,
mid-air above sapling, golden,
they hover like ashes
the heat of a fire floats
and deck in and out
of sun beam and tree-shadow
burns through the pines
reflecting off the water,

and I think this is what love looks like.

A thousand floating bugs
on the edge of the water,
unconcerned, detached
from the bird and the cold,
silent everywhere
except for the hum
of their wings,
and the lap of lake-wave,

loop, spin,

move three square inches to circle each other again.