Millions of Monarchs Make the Rarest Sound

"...for the world is laboring
to eclipse us" ~ D. Bonta

 As waterfall— rain of wings
and bodies that did not perish,
purling from the arms of pine: 
clouds that feed on milkweed 
and wildflowers, that filter
light down to the forest  
floor.  What bright-striped
tribes, what vapory tapestries
made to make themselves
over every season. Who 
taught each one to bear one
flimsy pane of light, one flap 
of sound through the bars?
A maw opens at the top
of the canopy, waiting 
for the unbearable 
cascade of beauty:
for now, this certainty
that they will come,  
until they don't.