The paper wasps fly all afternoon through the ruined woodpile. Some are fast, driven by errands both urgent and mysterious. Others circle a nearby log as if their ancestors had once been there.
It’s risky to get so close when you can’t see. It’s also a thrill.
I sit beside a stump and right off one lands in my hair. He moves across my scalp like a wind blown seed. I shut my eyes, let him go about his business and then he flies.
Planet of the Blind 