You, oh winged one,
you many-veined transparency,
feather light, long-tailed, thin,  
hanging by a thread, you cling
to every bright surface: my car,
the white-trimmed, lakeside inn,
the overhang above this café,
where I gaze up and wonder
if you’ll drop, drop, drop–
you and your innumerable friends
(what some call an infestation,
I call a congregation)–upon my plate
and become one
ephemeral topping
on my avocado toast.

You are prehistoric, they say;
a microcosm of evolution, I say:
an egg, a nymph,
a water-dweller,
always molting into yourself
below the surface of things,
of lakes and streams,
sometimes eaten,
but otherwise waiting
for that final stage
that never seems to come,
until it does.

Oh, the glory of adulthood,
for then you rise!
Thousands upon thousands,
tracked by Dopler, reported as news—
you rise! A reverse baptism,
a glorious sign,
out of life-giving water,
you rise and fly!
And (if you’re not eaten),
you mate on that rise, and then
you spawn, seek light, and die.

Oh, to be a nymph again, I think—
quiet, hidden, molting without change—
but no! You die, but still you come!
In May or June, for eons you’ve come.
Your life cycle–out of water, into air–
shall never be denied!