All summer they were there inside the wall.
Lying awake, I’d hear them in the night
making the sort of giant purr that might
come from a tiger, yet was not at all
menacing. Sometimes they would scratch and gnaw
at the thin barrier that kept their nest
and mine apart. The thing that I liked best
was that there were no flies. I listen for
their chittering in autumn and it fades.
Sometimes a straggler will wander through
a window, dopy, stunned, then go home to
yawn into death. The delicate thin blades
of wing that make that vast collective hum
are mostly quiet now, will soon be dumb.