Every year around this time witnesses the return of
the cicada killer wasps: their sole purpose in life is
to fight, even to die, in the war against cicada.

They land their bodies on my hot pavers, the straight-away
between the porches is a landing field for sassy doughboys,
chewing gum, sun in their eyes, alive another day.

I get out the hose and assist them in training, parrying
with sprinkler and jet and soaker settings, preparing them for
aerial bug-fight, cicadas are fierce opponents
with an innate understanding of prime numbers.

I had a huge party this weekend and I gathered the cicada killer wasps
around and I told them it was the front of the house for the rest of the day
and they listened. That night while packing up the tent and the chairs
they came back and settled into their usual spot. The leader,
oddly one of the youngest, came over and said, “You miss everybody,
i can tell,” hovered a moment and then flew off to the shade of the boxwoods.

© Chagall ∞

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