Devon Neal – Bugs

In the warm syrup of this July morning
I found floating in the clear pool water
hundreds of little brown semicolons
with wings like cooked onions. It’s the same
every year—one damp, cricket-cracked
July night, everything aligns: the dew
climbs the old wood of the back deck,
the midnight wind eases through leaves
like breath upon reeds, and the moon
moves its hips on the water’s surface.
One night a year, something deep down
in the earth, low and primal, unheard
by human ears, ripples through humid dark,
lulling them in their quiet flight
toward this lunar dance. Every year,
something makes me forget to cover
the pool before bed, and in the thick
of the morning, net in hand, I dredge
the punctuation of their hypnotized bodies.