to April. Their figures are impeccable,

their waists tiny, their feet all grace; they

are many-colored, yellow and gold,

rust and brown as earth. One, a slender

hunter, is metallic blue-green as the fangs

of the daring jumping spider; another,

brown-striped as water in sunlight,

is house-hunting. Hovering she ponders

this balcony’s rail, checks the ridge

of roof which shades it. Soon she will begin

to build: chewing and shaping a claim

shanty of a few cells, alone at first until

she can raise up daughters (who knows

what they say to each other, their subjects

of waspish gossip). Eventually in her house

there will be many rooms, maybe

with other houses inside those for yet

smaller creatures. Even in this house,

there are rooms I’ve never seen; even

here, all these houses within houses.