Grocs weave a web like lace,
but strong and tensile,
gummed between
sturdy tree branches.

The creatures
bob when the willywinds blow,
and the emerging blobs of color,
shake like belly dancers,
emit a powerful stench
to ward off predators.

The grocs are twiddling amusements,
a trapeze act, precarious,
bold and brazen,
even as, on a nearby perch,
millacrows watch keenly,
prepare themselves to drop down
and feast.

For, left unmolested,
they’ll grow into groculas,
abandon their labyrinth,
fly off to hunt millacrows.

So, despite rancid smell,
the black-winged beasts feast.
In a frenzy of feeding,
they eat their own death.