Bees

by Matt Thomas

There must have been scouts,

twos and threes nosing around

for a whiff of familiar collective memory

but I forgot those

camouflaged in gravel, barn wood.

Bees are always in the clover,

hanging around the stock tank

but never a mood of bees

where there had been air,

a swirling ball

coating the horses stomping flies.

We swam them that summer,

a flood on the paddock.

At height of day

they disappeared to cool their queen.

Thousands of wings

beneath the floor

humming our unused space

fading into afternoon chores.

Near dusk they one by one

returned to sleep.

It was a crazy harmony,

all of us

dragging the harrows, swinging the hammers,

carrying faith to being

chaff airborne shadowing

our seeds on the ground.