It's hot here in Indy, and muggy.
We're waiting for what is called
a "scattered" thunderstorm,
which I suppose means it could rain
just about anywhere
except on us.
In the Ravine Garden on the grounds
of the Indianapolis Museum of Art,
the heat hung low, moisture
slowing the movements of everything
except goldfinches and hummingbirds.
Along with the bees, they darted among the flowers
on this quiet stream, gorging on seeds
and nectar. The hummingbirds will be leaving
any time now; they're just waiting for
that signal, that angle of the sun, that tells
them it's time to fly to Mexico.
The bees will go to their hive to care
for the queen, buzzing their way through
the cold winter, while people, stupid people,
insist on behaving as though winter makes no
difference to the cycles of daily life.
Instead, they will obey their corporate masters,
droning away in their cubicles as the blue
light on their computer screens
sucks away their spirits, if not their lives.