A Small Rabble of Sweat Bees
It's
just
a bird
singing through
an open window,
and a woman closing the door
to a dream of a lone tree on a hill with just a
single leaf on it (the tree, I mean), and opening another one to a bowl of
peaches, apples, nectarines and clusters of grapes, just sitting in the sun, on a wooden table
(like one of those old paintings of some rich
lord or lady's spread, back in the day, but maybe also featuring, there, a few fish
and some game hens, recently caught that very morning,
no doubt) crawling with what looks to
be a small rabble
of sweat bees.
(The fruit,
I
mean).
