And the story’s all over
Other blown things flew, during the working crew’s insomnia and a venerable barn got swallowed by a township of bees. Their wax and buzz.
Some flowerlike thing took to the painted red wood.
Slats grew porous, hospitable.
When people came to the noise from across the country, a living structure stood before them.
It performed few great feats. Breathing. Wings and production methods carefully observed, as holidays can be.
One man stood next to a child whose mouth hung O.
A woman wore her best hat, crowned by dense and cherry woods.
The next person to say a vowel sound would be set upon by a mass.
The hive decided. Then descended.
The people took up collections and padded down the drive while some church-laden folk sang O. As a swarm of wings brought them up into the air