Drone

                         What would be left of our tragedies if an insect were to present us his?
                         —EM Cioran 
  
  I watched her die this morning. 
  
  Her pollen-encrusted legs scrabbled   
            on cement,   
                      scattering a constellation.    
  
  Sun shone brilliantly on the mustard coloured hairs of her body,   
            the iridescent wings,
                      pitch-black eye. 
  
  Winding down into death’s irrevocable spin, her body hummed—    
                      the memory of a hive. 
  
  Finally, with a single quiver of the antennae—
                                life was gone.
  
  Her body lay toppled,  
            Its amber perfection immutable    
  
  The cloying scent of bellflower permeated the air 
                      like a lie.