I open the door and leave the house,
leave a may-fly dithering at the window.
How has she survived into June,
temperatures down to 30 degrees?
I leave the door open, hoping
she might find her way to whatever
pond or field is home. Such urgency
I understand. The body tells her
the end is near, and she must find
the open door to where the family
of may-flies finally sleeps together.