Percussion has gone wild.
The insect aspect is anything but set in aspic.
The night fidgets and hits its 'aitches like itches.
Music of the all-insect jazz improv orchestra
pulses like ancient breathing in the twilight,
the steel-wool sh-sh of the snare drum,
a tinny trilling, thrice times trice
Riffs waft across the tree trunk,
catching on the bark,
snatching hooch from flowers,
hardening the sky's arteries,
while the tree fades
black into the backdrop.
Time is stymied, I'm mimetic,
changing into Kafka's creature
ever so surely
until the only
sound left on