Small tracker on my lounge room window           inch-
ing, creep-ing         lioness-intent          stalking moths.
The TV gongs out barking blare and borealis light,
sketches chalky moths that          tip tap          tip tap-
tease, throw ruffled skirts in flirtatious flamenco.
What helps you crampon, little amphibian?
Do you view my glass as frozen fjord to conquer,
the images beyond lumbering leviathans?

Does my ‘O’ of Koi-mouth-pleasure, threaten?
You would fit easily in my Tiddalik mouth, little brave one
exposing your tender, prenatal belly to me, who could
be deity/demon or worse - Climate Change denier.
And I         do          bring the light and extinguish it, as well.
And I         do          turn on the sprinklers that make you sing.
You swim uninhibited         to a moth who threshes near,
then it is all rolling-eyed, gullet-stuffing enthusiasm.
I don’t condemn. Frogs are eaten. Humans, too.
Though we’ve forgotten that inconvenient truth.

And we have warred and won against our predators.
Still, nature abhors a vacuum - the viruses are stepping up.