BEES

                by Leslie Clark

For three days, they hang from the patio ceiling, a black globe lamp,
hundreds of them, clumping, roiling, a chain-saw buzz.
The swarm sends scouts for miles to search out a perfect nest-place.
Small patrols whizz by our ears like rifle bullets.
We can’t tell if they’re “killers.” They wear their harmless
honeybee masks well, hanging there, a portentous presence.
We research by modem – sites tell us they’re at a docile
stage while searching for a nest – no home turf to protect.
Nevertheless, we take no chances, avoid the backyard. The dog
goes for walks out front. We try to co-exist in peace.
We don’t want them dead – just gone.

A friend tells of her bee-swarming experience, how they crawled
under her door, through electrical outlets, a relentless black tide.
She had to call the man with killing chemicals – it was her or them.
For days she heard the plipping of  bodies inside the walls,
stepped on husks of bees as crisp as cocoa puffs.

Our more cooperative swarm finally departs, arcing 
through the air like a cannonball.  The last scouting expedition
returns to find they’ve vanished – no breadcrumb trail to follow.
They cluster in the spot vacated by the mother group,
a small dark teardrop. They gather no pollen, feed no queen.
Their purpose gone, they drop to the concrete patio floor
one by one.