Enjambre

It begins as a hum on the edge of hearing, a vibration that lives not in the ear but in the sternum. A low, thrumming question mark. Then the first scout arrives, a speck of black against the white of the afternoon sky. Then another. Then a dozen. The air thickens.

You realize, with a queer chill, that you are looking at a metaphor for your own thoughts. The way anxieties multiply. The way a single worry begets a dozen, until your mind is a dark, buzzing cloud, each idea indistinguishable from the next, all of them moving with a terrifying, unified purpose. enjambre

Inside the house, you press a palm against the window glass. It vibrates. The swarm on the oak tree outside is a fractal storm, each insect a neuron firing in a massive, unconscious brain. They have no queen here, not yet. They are an interregnum, a republic of pure instinct searching for a home. They taste the air with their antennae, sampling the pheromones of panic and pollen. It begins as a hum on the edge