He is out there in his armor of white coveralls,
hood and gloves, carrying his weapons of choice:
a heavy metal bar, a swinging can stuffed with old rags.
A drift of smoke floats lazily from the battlefield
on late afternoon sunlight that slants through trees
still bare of leaves.
like the maidens of old, safe in their high castles
as they cheered their knights at arms.
He will bring the start of a new hive,
prisoners captured from the vigilant Russians in the field
who defend their stronghold fiercely with their wicked sting.
Someday we will reap the reward for his bravery this day:
sweetly glistening in the morning light,
smoothly golden on the tongue, the liquid treasure of the comb.
It will be a prize well worth the wait.