. Two Bugologues . Moth Onto a wall in chilly gloom I fold myself, all silk and dust, and then, from half across the room, the candle flickers: Come. You must. I am well past my crawling days when, wingless, I thought only of my next mealtime. Now, nothing stays my course to light, to beauty, love. Around that lambent Lorelei closer and closer, almost free of midnight stasis, I see why these wings at last were given me. The light grows brighter, hotter. Soon I slough off night, that dark cocoon. . Cockroach I had bad dreams all night, and when I woke up, found myself transformed Into a monstrous thing, with chin And teeth, two leggèd and two armed. What's this, I asked myself, a dream? No dream. I lay and tried to think. All was familiar. But the seam I slept in, underneath the sink, Was far too narrow for me now. How could I wriggle out? At last, Contorting and in pain, somehow I managed. But, that trial passed, I had to move, to feed and forage As always, and what would they say, My friends, the bugs? I summoned courage And set out on my upright way. . . Chickadee a bird word I'm perky and small, I sing dee-dee-dee, My flock is one pulsing, flittery thing, Within which it makes no difference to me Whether upright I perch or upside-down cling. If you see a small tree seem to shake on its own As if all of its leaves were astir in a breeze Though the air is dead-calm, we've made ourselves known, The bringers of warm, feathered motion to trees. . . Donald Mace Williams is a retired newspaper writer and editor with a Ph.D. in Beowulfian prosody. His latest books are "Wolfe and Being Ninety" (February 2023) and "The Nectar Dancer" (August 2023). He lives in Austin, Texas.