ㅁ 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.
– a sonnet.
