I march in swarms, a hungry tide, My numbers vast, with nowhere to hide. I strip the land, then fade from sight, A plague of hunger, day and night.

I have a bed, but I never sleep. I have a mouth, but I never speak. I always run, but have no legs, Born in the hills from winter's dregs.

My elder scrapes the clouds. My younger kisses the plain. I stand between their stories. What am I?

I shimmer in the heat, but offer no relief. I promise water, but it's only a belief. What am I, a trick of light and grief?

I rush through forests, I slip through town, I sparkle in sunlight, I murmur in brown. I carry leaves and twigs that fall, I’m not a road, but I still crawl.