Toads saw wood
while their cousins bird-chirp —
a summer lullaby in two parts.

Suddenly up rush from the trembling blades
a flurry of fluffy four-winged ants.
In disarray they swarm about an outdoor light,
flying higgledy-piggledy,
chaotically,
haphazardly,
smacking their bodies against my window pane.

Broadcasting pheromones into the thick night air,
desperate to find mates,
they throw wings to the wind
and couple.
Then die.
(The luckless land in mouths and digestive tracts
of geckos and cats and dogs and men.)

Just as abruptly as they began
so they go.

And the chorus of amphibians plays on.

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