Friday, December 12, 2014

Blackflies dream

If only you could know
The musky tang of berries
Rotting on the bush.

The fug of muskeg, peat bog
Sucking wet below a crust of ice,
Blackflies sleeping now;

Or massed in spinning columns,
Riding currents of warm air
In the dream of summer.

Where else would they go?
This crust is one they can't break through,
Their wings a crumpled mess.

Rachel Westfall
December 12, 2014