“…A long call
and the sudden nothing after” ~ D. Bonta

In summer, hornets took over
a hollowed-out log that birds
once filled with twigs,
discarded tufts, detritus.

Into their nest they buzzed,
blared warnings whenever I came
too close, whenever the spray
from the garden hose fell

in an arc around their cloister.
I could have smoked them
into a stupor, delivered
a toxic fume. But we’ll

keep our distance,
go about our
business— I know
their sting, intuit

that silence and restraint
will serve me better than
insistence: this wish to probe,
clean up, empty out, subdue.


In response to Via Negativa: Quiet house.

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