yellowjacket raze i've been calling you a bee my whole life. that isn't what you are. you're a wasp. a social hunter who lives in a nest made of wood mashed into mulch by teeth too small to be seen by the unclothed eye. i used to fear you. one of your crueler cousins sank its lance into me when i was a child. an allergic reaction sent me to the emergency room. some small seed of that pain still sits in the chest where i store the memories of moments i thought might murder or maim me. you seem too curious to mean me harm. you explore the contours of my camera. i watch you wash your face. i feel the breath of your flight on my flesh before you walk across one long finger in search of something worth bringing back to the foundress who built your summer home. 230916 what's it to you? who go blather from