the water undulated, like dripping ice

cream in summer — maybe spring — sliding

towards the mushy ground.

alike the glow of camp’s fire, flickering — 

maybe, gently — mayflies’ wings fluttered and

laid rest on each other. body asleep on another.

zephyrs give a kiss to the water’s body. they

blow the rested flies named may,

while summer/spring’s heat perpetuates.

so close to resembling fire’s kill for roots

woven in soil, is the thread for the life

of mayflies — in danger, from dear themselves.

and their mother’s love will descend,

take her children into her hands in hopes

that mayflies won’t die in a day.

Image source.