September, and the yellowjackets are desperate; these are the males,
Soon to die, but committed, before they go, to hauling in every kind
Of meat they can find, for the next generation, hidden in secret loam;
So the fading rangers scour every chance, every picnic and barbecue,
Every patch of grass, and when they find a shred of sausage, a fallen
Burger, a scrap of fat, they dicker and deconstruct it with astonishing
Speed and celerity. I could watch them all afternoon. They are fading
Even as they labor with such assiduity; they must know that they will
Outlast their own largesse by only a few weeks, if that; yet they never
Stop scouting sandwiches, and pouncing on popsicles, and quartering
The school picnic. Isn’t it the case that everything is a teacher finally?
Everything speaks clearly if you can decipher the language, the music.
Everything. And in the end what you learn best is that you don’t know
Anything well; everything never stops singing. Isn’t that what we both
Have learned over the course of our labor? That there is a gentle music
That we can hear but never explain, except by talking sort of sideways,
About gods, for example, or mathematics, or huddled larvae, or wasps.


Image CC BY-SA 2.0 "Untitled" by Patty