The word feels sticky in the mouth, a cluster of consonants that buzz against the teeth. It is not a flock, graceful and migratory. It is not a pack, bound by loyalty and fang. It is a swarm —a single mind fractured into a thousand furious bodies. Each one is negligible: a pinch of dust, a wisp of wing, a needle of intent. But together, they are a liquid. A living, churning cloud that pours itself over branches, eaves, and the forgotten bicycle in the yard.
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
To watch a swarm settle is to witness a kind of violence. They do not land; they collapse onto the branch, each insect grappling for purchase, forming a pendulous beard of chitin and industry. The branch groans under a weight that seems impossible for such small things. The sun is occluded. The world behind them becomes a dappled, shifting darkness. The word feels sticky in the mouth, a
And the sound. God, the sound. It is not a song. There is no melody, no soloist. It is the roar of the collective, a single, sustained note of now . It bypasses the ears and speaks directly to the ancient lizard in the base of the skull. Danger , it whispers. Safety in numbers. Run. Or stay and be consumed. It is a swarm —a single mind fractured
Enjambre.