that is all they are,
side-stepping in hurried wave from one spectrum to the next
on those damned, barren wastelands of rock.
what scroaming beasts, these skippers in roar of rush;
what beckons them to pass as though nothing, they, were to stop?
can they, these slow’n’ slicers of the air, not see what is here,
idle and unafraid to be still?
can they not follow our way, to remain?
such noisy beasts, these crawlers–
why do they drown the ticking symphony of night?
and how they bother to pull the followers from Earth in their frenzy’d flush–
these defiant ones, determined in their motion,
know not the route of friction-less–
how could they, with Sailorswind and Hoppers
so worried of their path, so longing of their kin’s return–
yet, this breeze about them stirs a curiousity,
the killer of the brave,
to hope one should learn what rustle, this, does not show from afar
or be let known to they who are in doubt of journey.
from specks in grass