Bees in a Time of War
Lisa Williams
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It’s not the bees but the shadows of the bees
arcing over the surface of a field.
Down, then over. Up, and then across.
Their bodies skimming along the weedy surface
like thoughts. Or like a mass of thoughtless shapes
moving, only moving, and not meaning,
the bees’ quick bodies and the bodies’ shades
bullet-shaped, but much too soft
to be bullets, much too gentle, visibly
flitting over green pennants of grass.
