Small frog on my lounge room window

inching lioness-intent

        stalking

moths.

The television gongs out sound and light in borealis waves

while         moths

tip tap tip

        tap

tip tap tip         tease

throw ruffled skirts about them

in ecstatic flamenco.

What is it you crampon?

Is glass       ice-floe

the images below lumbering leviathans?

What myth

have your people marketed?

You have exposed tender belly to me

who could be deity

and I         do

bring the light and extinguish as well.

You swim inhibited         to one who threshes near

then it is all

gullet-stuffing enthusiasm

                                        though I note

that you must gulp hard

roll eyes         comically.

Consuming moth must be akin to swallowing handfuls of

peach fuzz

and your victim         quiver-struggled         as you thumbed it in.

Well, frogs are eaten too.

Humans?

We have warred and won against our predators.

Still, nature abhors a vacuum -

The viruses

have         stepped up.