One May evening, we
turned a corner and found insects,
more than a mile of them,
backlit against the setting sun.
Like a storm of living snow,
They owned the world entirely.
“Gnats,” my son said,
although they seemed more
like moths, drawn to the last
flame of day. I can’t explain
what it meant to find the air
suddenly filed with wings,
minute lives flickering
across the road like visible
music. It was what I’ve always
wanted, to be surrounded utterly
by the precarious
dazzle of the temporary,
the heart winged and rising.