One by one flowers open, then fall.
My ears are thick with them, the yellow jackets levitating out of this vole hole to hover through our scarecrows of gold banner and harebell. Murmuration is a word even without the starlings’ imprint above this leaf light. It is almost too beautiful to write: the birds I cannot see clustering at night beneath the Milky Way, river of light, their absence silence, and then the wasps I thought bees vibrating over the wet leaves, the pulpy flies, the destroying angels I’ve walked through. These wasps fly in and out beneath the metal sky into the dark cupboards of earth, thousands, while I plunge my arms through bees snout-deep in late blossom, everything and me until the first glittering frost alive.
2 thoughts on “Late Summer Wasps”
I like it but unclear are you putting your hands through bees or wasps
Sent from my iPhone
Hi, Kookabird! Thank you for your thought! I really do appreciate it. Good to have a reader that cares. Look again: line says I plunge my arms through bees!