Black Dogs and Evangelines

 Lying on her back
beneath the old magnolia
that had never grown large,

in view of the eucalyptus flowers
that looked like the dry flies
her father had shown her how
to tie, she seeps into the earth
like warm honey

as sleepy as that

like the last rain of August,
too tired to storm,
mistily lading the air
with sultry resistance;

as sleepy as the old hive
in the corner of the barn
right by the eucalyptus blooms.  

Those are some lazy bees,
she recalled Sam saying.  
She smiled, watching
a bee walk right from the hive

to the nectar,
clumsily tightroping
the red quiver of stamens,
returning home seconds later.  

Never even had to raise a wing.  

Her thoughts rode
the buzzing of those bees,
let its monotone carry her
clear across the yard,
and back to the afternoon

when Sam was digging the garden,
when her father was tying
Royal Coachmen and Green Drakes,
Black Dogs and Evangelines,

their artificial wings
made from tweezed feathers—
beautiful and bent,
bound and still.