burial ovenbird We believe our dead a damp and dismal secret, so we consign our soulless reliquaries to the loamy dark. Bees bring their departed to the light. Out of the hive and up to the surface, the bumblebees carry the shells of the ones whose vibrations have sputtered into stillness. I kneel by their open air graves, bodies curled to make themselves small so they can slip through the aperture between realms. When I die lay me in the arms of the refulgent day. I already know what it is to be obscured. At the end I hope to know what it is to be revealed. _______________________________________________ 260706 what's it to you? who go blather from