If they ever stop

the world will end:

shatter into a silence

of gloom.

The crust of the Earth

is the skin of a drum

that vibrates with the

pitch of a thousand calls and wriggles.

We can barely stay stood

on this boarded, fine wood

the insects use as their

musical theatre.

Their relay unceased

like the roar of a beast

desperate for a moment’s

attention.