Weather of Insects

The meadow keeps its weather in small wings, in the tick of legs through clover, in a heat that rises like a held breath and breaks into lace.

I lie down to listen and the world is braided: sap climbing, ants as red punctuation, a beetle polishing the noon with its back, and a grass blade remembering the wind.

There is a door under every stone, hinges of dark, a cool salt of earth. A larva turns in its sleep and the future trembles, soft as a paper lantern in rain.

Evening arrives without a trumpet. Light thins, and the chorus gathers its tools, folding the day into the many pockets of bark, a quiet industry of becoming.