I know the gate latched shut behind us.
I get to the bridge and shy. Throw my rider.
If you were my rider, where would you have me take you?
A warning hangs from the tree’s rough curve—the hive’s buzzing circuit.
I move but shouldn’t outrun the bees.
If ever there were reasons to burn your hair. A swarm of suns.
Some of which beg to be caught and eaten.
This is the place to cross, to duck under, to climb atop.
What trips us up: whitewater eddies or honey, sticks or stingers.
Proceed with caution.
From the other side, I hear you humming. Tossing your hair.