“Bees have congregated on the tip of the wing”

says the pilot, voice sizzling

over the speaker like . . . well, bees. So we wait in our recycled air,

each of us singing silently

inside our minds, a buzzing round,

a silent, synchronous prayer

to break loose the colony

or cluster or whatever it is,

to shake free the hive and

let us depart. Dear nature,

how silly we are to think

you won’t eventually smear

over our metals and wires.

How silly to think that

in pursuit of the survival

wired tight inside you,

you won’t crawl into our

microscopic crooks and crannies,

won’t break our brilliant tech

bit by buzzing bit.…