MAYFLIES
Three days they
rise in clouds from the lake,
blown like old straw,
each trailing two barbaric
spikes like
a beard of oats.
They stick like pale rice paper
to wet skin, squirming;
a choking film flaps
dreamily around noses.
I imagine them watching
their new bodies clamp,
surprised, mouthless, ephemeral,
in a clutch different from
the dragon's in the vicious water,
an exhilaration much
thinner
and more glass-like than the clear minnow blood.
Only a perfect trust in instinct
can manage the transition
to breathing from not breathing.
Relying on experience
just won't get them through.
Now they die in
millions,
everywhere carcasses to sweep up,
empty and
stiff, some, peacefully
flat like kites,
some coiled in loops
sodden like bits of rope.