Summer

I just watched my mother kill a hornet.

He bounced.

First, up into the light fitting. Then, into the leftmost corner.

As he fell, plumb from white ceiling to off-white floor with twisting body, his thorax detaching, his throbbing ululation intensified.

Quick, silent slab slap.

Buzzes, still. Body vibrates, still. Wings taut to edges, still. 

And then curled up, foetal. Wings slowed, halted, still. Wings bent around to finally caress and hold his sternum and then hush.

No More Language until then one final and unnecessary marble slap.