Time spent beneath the willow, observing
tiny exoskeletal creatures in flight
might not be the best way of aquainting
oneself with them all, but it feels right.
The purr of a thousand little cellophane
wings buffeting the air in a most microscopic
way is intoxicating to close your eyes and
listen to, like a waterfall, microcosmic.
Watching the lives of those too short
to feel much in the way of pain, or suffer
a heartbreak, or loss such as those we might
endure, it's only logical we are their supper.
They must crave that emotional experience
and syphon it out of us in order to assimilate.
Their tiny straw mouths more vessels for
absorbing feelings than an attempt to agitate.
Maybe blood isn't all they need to survive.