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Exhausted Bee {2021}

by irr. app. (ext.)



Exhausted Bee {2021}

[eie dig055]

1. Exhausted Bee


A desiccated husk conceals scorch marks in the verdure. Amongst the weeds, a cluster of stink bugs gather around a seeping gash in an otherwise unblemished stem. This is why the breeze smells of damp gravel.

The movement of some animals leaves a residue behind; the movement of others creates a furrow. The two intersect to form an alphabet without vowels or punctuation. It transcribes the sounds made by the continual budding and decay of the vegetation. Some little attention is paid, and some is not. This is the nature of loss.

Tiny paws scrabble in hard, compacted dirt without urgency. They want of nothing. There are plenty of better prospects elsewhere, and nothing by way of competition. Nearby, an anole is dreaming about gigantic crickets and wakes with a shudder.

An unseeing eye is tickled by dust.

There is a dry rasping sound, followed by sympathetic vibration in the underbrush. No one claims responsibility. Disjointed wisps of vapour cast lazy rainbows in the air for no one to see. Several different species of birds begin to call at exactly the same moment, startling themselves and each other into silence. The silence persists for longer than is comfortable.

Different forms replace each other in succession. One may be soft around the edges; others are soft in the middle. Rigidity never endures for long, and the regions of emptiness only serve to emphasize the structures around them. A wasp eats a caterpillar; a wasp eats a nectarine. A blackbird eats a wasp. A fox eats a blackbird and shits out a wasp. A caterpillar eats a question mark.

Thick, algae-clotted fluids form a delicately-curved meniscus, which distorts the surrounding landscape and gives the world a greenish-blue cast that hides the advancing centuries. Limbs tiredly drag their bodies across the leaf debris, suddenly feeling their weight as an urgent directive. Discarded thorns amongst the rubbish make their presence felt. Ouch.

The sky becomes black with swallows, so dense that the rain never touches the ground. Beaded droplets roll from one feather to another, from one wing to another, from a splayed tail to a ruffled crown. The ground becomes excessively dry, and the moss turns brown. Even the faint moisture in a breath is instantly absorbed by the fading memory of what it means to be damp.

Vast stones grind one another into sand with indifference. The overabundant multitudes of people do much the same.

A subtle salt trace in the soil indicates the disappearance of an opportunity, and forms an incomprehensible symbol next to an exhausted bee.


released September 3, 2021


Recorded August-September 2021 at Rock Creek Tributary, Hillsboro, Oregon.

All sights & sounds culled & curated by M. S. Waldron




all rights reserved


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