The unexpected Indian summer
At September’s ending.
Seems to be signalling
The last of the year’s wasps
To make their final flight.
On sun-warmed stones they gather
Like aircraft carrier planes.
Launching themselves into the sky,
Dive bombing windfall apples,
Gorging on the sweet treat.
Then again into the air they spiral,
Spurring each other on
To rash kamikaze stunts.
Until the most reckless collides
with the blades of my lawnmower.