The leaves scrape mid dance
Encased into a joy none know
Puppeteered by gusts
A mouth of our own couldn’t exhale

Six moths linger soft
Wing dust fallen and lost
Luminescence calls
Even our smallest

We are all just scraping
Against the harsh urban concrete
Pulled by the wind of our own breath
Which will one day pause

And the leaves will settle
To prepare for the sun to beam once more
For the moths who are left.