There are moths at the window here
Struggling to come in to the light
Their silver powdery wings flickering
Flopping and fluttering

Hundreds of these tiny creatures
Begging, on the cold glass

Who want most to be on the T.V. screen
Dreaming of how their legs and bodies
Would slowly warm, thrumming
On the face of a game show host
Shining and sweating on the air

But now the trees are swaying
And those moths are moving

Oh and the wind is singing
High up in the black branches

The wind sings them to leave