Churning

They never sting or last after dark,
but just before dusk this time of year,
“bobos” make clouds in the air.
Miniscule insects in swirling swarms
which you’re careful to never walk into
with open mouth or eyes.

Bobos, from my hammock I watch
your furious whirling collectives,
your billowing veils made up of thousands.
Is this the single evening of your lives?
Do you only live a day,
and spend it so alive I cannot look away?

I wonder if, in your tightnetted mass,
you bother to distinguish single selves.
Your curling circles haze the air
like twisting smoke on steroids.
Your fiercely spinning dance
makes a communal beauty of its own.

What skill you have
to keep from bouncing one another out!
I am dizzy simply watching.
I wonder what it’s like for you
to swivel and twirl and gyrate for an hour .
Do you long for sunset to let you rest,

to let you die when bats arise to feast?
I do not think you are dummies,
though that’s the Spanish word for you.
Bobos I salute and honor
your exemplary nonviolence.
And your churning lifeforce energy!

©Susa Silvermarie 2024