a noisy fan in the dead of night in
a room of the sleeping. humid and dense
they roam from flower to flower
sometimes
frantic, a quick burst of energy
taken by surprise
spiraling figure eights
then back again, another flower,
humming along the ground
circling in the sky
never really slowing down
legs collecting pollen
in puffs of yellow
never a dull moment
surrounded by friends
singing to themselves
a drone of work done and work
not yet accomplished
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