Mayfly

A shape in the depths
filtering, feeding,
inventing new versions
till the pale template
of completion rises
to break the surface,
breathe, fly, be sacrificed
for the final image.
A few hours or days left.
From the glistening cloud,
the downward flutter
of a mating; myriad eggs
threaded to a stream-bed.
Fluted wings at rest—
mazes of crystal veins
sealed in muted sunlight
as if, aeons ago, by amber.