Wasps
The wasps hover over the browning grass.
I don’t know what they’re looking for
But I know they are menacing.
The fear of children and the weak fleshed
Patrolling for sweet things
Stinging the unsuspecting
Batted at only to return with fervor.
I have always known of the wasp’s danger.
Yet at times,
When frustrated beyond clairvoyance,
I threw rocks at their nests.
I pitied those drowning in my parents wasp trap.
I picked up a dead one,
And lamented that it could no longer
Bother those that swatted at them
Cursing them for their nature.
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