I can hear the peepers singing from the parking lot,

louder as I approach, their competition rising 

and falling one after the others, like an answer, 

or a copy. Males, vying for female acquiescence. 

 

Rainstorms birthed this pop-up pond last night,

the same two inches that flooded our basement,

my husband sweeping up gallons of water with a wet vac, 

freeing it in the street to bless some other lower ground.

 

Here, bees dip in and out of the soggy grass, 

burying their bodies in clover, inadvertent 

gynecologists sweeping pollen from 

anther to stigma while they honey. 

 

This morning a carpenter bee pounded 

the window of my son’s room, throwing

itself at the glass till we caught it in a cup

and set it outside, our satellite nature.