[Trevor Conway]

Giddy chatter from a low branch –
the snoozing man knows the guise
of this bird’s talk having found a prize,
his answer a low, a rumbling chant.

The bird flies while the man clutches
an axe and a smouldering bundle of grass;
its smoke flows like a hazy mass
of hair, fading into the bushes.

The bird settles, its gaze on a tree
that hides a nest behind its bark.
The axe swings in a wide arc,
releasing a quick clamour of bees.

Smoke subdues: the man is left
to seize honeycomb with barely a sting,
and when he’s done, he’s sure to fling
a piece to the engineer of the theft.

A honeyguide is easy to please,
granted its one, simple gift
of larvae, wriggling like tired fish,
at a safe distance from livid bees.