A hum, a brizz, a buzzthe air shakes, the ground trembles,
ever so slight, a movement under the hooves
shuddering up through the soft parts in the center.
He is new, he is old,
he is ancient, he is not born at all.
Deep in the dark of the comb,
in the paper-walled cells,
life hums all around. He will be
born to that rasp,
that grating song.
Walks-Underneath whispers in the layers,
chuckles in the combs,
bites the life from the unwary,
here in the sharpness of the sting, inside the
wasp's-nest.
