In early October along the river’s edge,
deer hooves have printed the mud
with quotation marks, although
they had nothing to report. They drank
the cold water in silence and
slipped back into the woods.
It’s not yet five o’clock
but the sun is already stumbling sideways
and falling behind the Wisconsin treeline,
rays flailing into the sneeze-weed –
and there, stopped in time –
bees upon bees, beetles, caterpillars
frozen in place, stunned by cold
as they sought pollen,
nibbled leaves,
wove cocoons.
Two honeybees on either side
of the head of the ragged flower
with petals like shabby yellow slippers
hold on for dear life,
black eyes locked across the head of the flower,
legs holding the dusty chalice
as if tipping it back,
tongues buried deep,
no thoughts of cocoons, of shelter, of tomorrow –
neither the pollen nor the cold their undoing,
and really who can say whether they are truly
undone.
Halfway North 