Snapping shell,
the Clozxil points its wings
toward instinct's orbit,
near-hugs the surface,
a nucleus of information
condensed from others of its kind,
hones in on
the dusty reddish flight lane.

Breath-energized,
it glides above
sparse feeding grounds,
alert to the slightest movement,
too young yet to be hungry
but driven to snap up
that buzzing picadill,
the slithery sinkworm.

The Clozxil
never leaves the spheres,
sleeps on autopilot,
mates on momentary shared track,
but could care a mote of sand
for offspring,
merely checks off
species survival
until the next time.

But eventually,
the Clozxil slips into
a downward spiral.
Speed slows.
The picadills, sinkworm,
are beyond the grasp
of beak and talon.
Wings fold up,
body crumbles,
atoms break their cell bonds.
electrons cruise the atmosphere
for something about to live.