I thought it was a large moth, mistook it
for a portent of something special 
in the wind:
A dusky desert brother 
to the red darts usually seen.
It looked down on its luck,
then up again, down,     
then, with a pirouetting loop,
penned the air in a grand sweeping 
signature to the left.
Its is a rapier’s thrust, a phlebotomist’s
needle probing before setting deep.
Its very name could be Sudden. 
Like now,
in front of my window, it makes the sign
of the cross then,  
heart the size of a pea,
it delves and it suckles,
thistles of light where
the wings ought to go. 
where the heart goes. That quick.
That tentative. That sure.