Everything is a language for something.
This gentle snowfall choreography
of tiny drones returning to their cases,
like strange moths fluttering down and settling,
is a transient allegory.
The nervous electric rhythms are gone
and all that remains to do in the calm
is to stare at these stars as they drop
and then strain to hear the living silence
in the gnawing insect voice of the night.
Published in “Cyphers”
S.C. Flynn 