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Wasps gather at the open seam
Of wood where the stump lies
On the driveway. There is sap
Under the bark in a strata of
Pink and they swarm at it.
As the shadow of the still
Blade of the chainsaw passes
Over they boil up in unison
And scatter and then recluster
In. The engine sputters and it
Produces an acrid wave of
Smoke that engulfs them and
That trails in ragged bits
Across the stump and disperses.
Then the saw bites and
A torrent of wooddust comes out.

The wasps weave and spiral in the
Rushing matter like embattled ships.