a drunken flight of bumblebees
weaving in and out, crescendo and decrescendo
a few missed notes.
two drop out for a bit
then fly back in with a vengeance
as if to strike all the others to the ground.
we're crawling along the stems, our
wings drowsy in the sun, knowing
that in a week or two or three,
the pace will pick up and we'll have
to buzz like real bumblebees.
to get there, we better practice
in the darkness of night, in our
minds, no glass of wine
in sight.
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