The Green-Winged Swarm

The sun was hot.
I didn’t mind—
winter is always coming.

Beside me,
my friend cursed the heat,
head bent to phone.
“You’ll miss this,” I said.

The wind moved in fits.
The river slid by.
At first it seemed pollen.
Then the sun caught it:
tiny wings, glowing green, alive.

They swarmed in silence,
vanished into shade,
returned with the light.

For a moment
the air was fire.

Sun on the river—

green wings flicker into sight,

glowing, then gone.