Site For Sore Eyes

I’m normally a fan of bees.
I say, when they approach me, “Please,
Just tell me if I’m in your way.
I’ll leave. No need to sting today.”
Last night, alas, I pitched my tent
Astride a bee highway. I meant
No harm. In fact, I didn’t know–
Was shocked–I’d blocked the to-and-fro
Of workers on their bee commutes.
I’m not conversant with the routes
The local apiarians
Employ, where each begins and ends,
So, insufficiently aware
Of traffic patterns in the air,
I’d planted my great, rude erection
Straight athwart the intersection
Of Bee City’s Main and State…
The consequence was less than great.
They didn’t sting me, well protected
By the tent that I’d erected
In my cavalier disdain
For striped pikesmen. No, my pain
Was aural: Their annoying buzz
As they beheld the road-that-was
With my “improvements” lasted late
Into the northern night (this state
Does not stint on its summer sun)
And just as soon as dawn’d begun
To rear its cloudy, drowsy head,
The bees back to their buzzing sped
With vigor and determination
Such to earn my admiration
Had I not been bleeding sleep
From every camping-dust-clogged pore!
I won’t pitch tents there anymore.

Yukon Traffic

Bears and caribou stroll north
While bison wander back and forth
Across the highway. Moose just stand
And chew. Did you have something planned?
The wildlife up here don’t care.
You’re waiting here because they’re there.