As a child

I loved the fat moths

at the windows;

the thud against glass

of heavy wingbeats

interrupting lamplit bedtime stories.
Their great journey

was more magical than Santa Claus—

a million magnet-reading migrants

bursting forth

from inland black cutworm

through swirling skies

to the high plains

of caves and possums.
Sometimes in the magpie morning

I would find

a straggler

pulsing its final efforts

in charcoal smudges

against the bricks of the back verandah. 
I felt the weight of meat,

the soft powder of disintegration

in my palm.

I could taste the dust

of the distant Darling Downs

sprinkled from silken wings.
For every fallen soul

there seemed a million more

astonishing stories of insect clouds

descending

on sports fields and neon-lit buildings,

blocking ventilation, shorting

circuits;

forcing Parliament to dim the lights.
This summer,

the back deck is littered

only with dry leaves and dust—

a whisper in the background

gone silent.
Those heavy wingbeats in the night

become bedtime stories

of granite caves

shimmering through summer heat,

and a tiny grief

flutters silently

against my window.