First, the miraculous
droning, sibilant
dances directing and thumping, 
buzzing in the foundation,
snipping and cutting
green air. 
A great muffled drum,
the chorus tenses.
Its sibyls pour out 
in a drunken jet
to sing it:the bee-flock,
the thunder-polleners 
who tell exodus in a roaring tissue
their matriarch with them
throbbing Exalt! 
Exalt! up to the pear tree.
Then, from the mass molten
with magnetism and cracks, 
a yawn explodes, clumps
to the pear limb,
and silences. 
Even now, scouts shuttle
through the branches making
fiery mummery to the sun: 
inciting compass.
The fathoming nucleus
waits for the telling. 
This is a thing,
some will say,
men will not do.