The tree hums louder than a light pole.
A whirl of wireless intelligence
lifts the hair on my neck.
Nine feet up, a few bees hover
around the wax-sculpted,
honey dripping door to their hive.
.
Last summer, woodpeckers drilled the trunk
for termites and beetle grubs.
Wood was their gold mine,
drum kit, and the showplace
where a few glorious red-crested individuals
feasted and flourished with deafening drive

This year, the birds flew deeper into the forest
and the bees moved in.
Building their royal chamber caring for their young
in the dark Everything that matters hidden,
For others, their whole reason for living.

But what moves me about the bees
isn’t their natural history
it’s how they talk about flowers,
taking turns,
going in and out.
Their devotion to a whole-body,
whole-hive conversation of color and light,
The good vibration, sweet communion
that turns a dying tree
into a pipe organ