This swarm of bees was hanging
from the branch of a tall tree,
a writhing mass that clung together
and swung down like a black bell.

One of the boys, can’t remember who,
picked up an apple— it was late August—
51 or 52—and hurled it into the nest: 
it came apart in hunks, like a skull exploding,

then recomposed; but we kept hurling apples
and the swarm kept flying apart, flying together, 
replay of a bullet entering a man’s brain.
Looking back , I realize we couldn’t stop,

neither could the bees, we had this frenzy.
That’s when I learned how dangerous
I was—so that now when I walk in a field,
my shadow makes crickets hush 

and birds fly away in alarm.