Madness in the Wild

by Benjamin Busch

Something is wrong with the bees.
The snow is gone and the crocus are open,
but the bees can’t see them.
They fly in odd ovals, their eyes metallic with bewilderment.
Madness maybe. A stupor worse than winter fatigue.
People lose their minds.
The frantic old woman clutching a doll and kissing its face.
The man parading down a street yelling premonitions.
The veteran, knocking at his own door, searching for home.
They may not know they’re adrift, but we do.
What about lunacy in the wilderness?
We barely notice.
Not raccoons sluggish and angry with rabies.
Not deer confused by headlights.
Not wolves howling at the moon.
Nothing with explainable symptoms, nothing imprinted by instinct.
That is just nature.
I mean the little things.
Imperfect spider webs. Lost ants. Circling bees.
Do they know?
It must happen all the time.

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