THE SWARMING

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THE SWARMING

The jungle was already torn when we arrived.

One could see into the gash for an extremely

Long way.  It looked like an ancient ritual

Might look where the celebrant reached into

The chest of the victim and pulled the heart,

Still beating, from the body and held it high

For all to see.

The birds were the first to exit the cover.

Their cries were a voluble explosions,

Chatter and freakish noises that permeated

The air and then the skin, flooding the heart

With the anguish of its sounds.

The rainbows of feathers had no apparent

Order.  There was only a cacophony of color.

No flocks here.  Only terribly frightened birds

Swirling from the deepest parts of the jungle.

We retreated to our vehicles when the insects

Flowed from the great forest.  It was too much 

To absorb; the sounds, the metallic voices, 

The unmistakable hum of millions upon millions 

Of insects pouring through the opening and making

Tsunami as they coursed across the land.  We were unable

To even see anything from our cars, so covered they were

With the seething bodies of endless tiny creatures.

The washed over us and rejoined the jungle behind us.

The greater animals followed not concerned at all

That we were there.  The sullen coughs and roars,

The screams and calling of all species filing past,

Not intending harm, just moving, moving to leave

This sorry intrusion into another world, not theirs,

Not ours.

We were to follow them.  As they passed we started

Our engines and formed a close pack, growling and

Sliding on the boggy ground.  They hadn’t seen 

The last of us.  We were witness to what they did.

We would return, all of us.  All of us. The planet still

Whirling as if directed by some mad force intent

On telling each of us how to behave, what to do.