There’s a large furry hornet sitting in the grass next to me. It’s moving slow because of the cold or it’s busy with a patch of clover pollen. It’s hardly moving. I lay down to soak in some more sunlight, to recharge my head where doughy histamines have given way to foggy anti-histamines. I turn sometimes to poke at the hornet with my finger or my camera. Eventually it’s bothered enough that it jumps from between the grass blades and flies a few menacing circles around me, then bolts.

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