50,000 BUMBLEBEES DIE
The sprayer power-mists poison clouds
over the Linden trees. Fifty thousand bumblebees
downdraft and soft-plop on the asphalt.
Nearby, the colonies hunker in ground holes,
queens and drones whisper confusion
and wait. No workers, not one floats down
the hollowed passageways. The queens dream
of fuzzed carapaces tumbling into a funeral pyre
and follow the curl of amber-streaked smoke,
fly into the fire’s center, shoot out
stinging the onlookers blind.