Midnight, and on the harbor side of the twin-pane storm
window a praying mantis has joined the ranks
of tiny tree frogs
in search of what will get it through
the night. Its body
a stick of folded wings, ball-and-socket levered
arms and legs
shadow box their double
on the glass negative of telltale spray,
a salt and sand illumination of powder limbs
and tendril
appendages whose tap and scratch
telegraph and trace
every move
of predator and prey. In the top left corner
of the bottom sash, marked wings
bearing the corona
of a double
eclipse, a sweetfern moth
probes the seal
of thermal molding, a splotch
of watercolor lace brushing drops of condensation
that choreograph its dance with light
and momentary grace.
In the lower right quadrant of the compass rose
a shadow limb unlocks,
the suction tips of the wired lower
and upper extremities a cybernaut's dream:
with the jeweled
movement of a space walk
it's plotting a course east by northeast,
navigating into the rising wind, eyes and antennae
turning their radar dish due west.
The candle flame that burns this side of the glass flickers
in a sudden draft. I have not moved in an hour.