dust in the wind

It’s still seven in the morning, and cold.
The sunlight filters in through the windows,
basking the room in a honey glow.
In this beam, or that,
Dust motes gambol in midair
Riding the tide of their life
As unconsciously as we do ours.
Then the wind shifts, or dies
Taking with it a hundred thousand lives.
All that will be left of that grand ballet
Is a couple of thousand dust motes
Lying on the tabletop.