A flurry grays the April air
as clouds of speckles swirl and mate,
euphoric, blazing, unaware
of windshields on the interstate
hurtling through their fevered storm.
These whirlwind-wings pursuing their fate,
in red and black above the warm
blacktop, link and live three days.
Tripping on truck exhaust, they swarm,
convinced it’s flora which decays.
They catch the fumes, sweet as the spice
of rot, home in on motorways
and, as they’re turned to mush, think, “Nice!—
manure, grass clippings—paradise!”