Caveat: Poem #974

They swarmed: a cloud of tiny bugs that –
distilling atmosphere with wings –
as if hyped up and stoned on drugs that
impelled orbits more than stings.
The green of trees and breeze-bent grasses
made better views than bug-strewn glasses.
In water standing by the road
they buzzed beside a flattened toad.
Unreadable unlike books’ pages,
the path unfolded asphalt planes
and hiding mother earth’s hot veins,
concealing geologic ages.
I stopped to take a picture then
and waved my hand around again.

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