Elegy For Flying Insects

The pock of their small explosions.

The sudden emulsions

of guts and chitin sprayed

onto glass and flash-dried

in the windshield wind.

Out there on their side,

death multiplied,

peaked, and declined.

Less and less rain

or squirtable blue fluid

seemed to be needed

to wash it clean.

And now at road-trip’s end,

here in my mind,

only one V-shaped crust

like a winged ghost

flutters a little, and shines,

revived

simply by having lived

a summer and never seen us

suddenly coming.

         (Natural Bridge No.43 (2020))