For Victor Nuñez
Slowly the beekeeper moves, like a lean and tired animal,
dressed like a simple landscape in all the colors of the West.
His secret a crown on his head, he stares right through others.
On hidden dirt tracks, he drives a small van filled with stories,
arrives in the middle of a clearing where heavy bee clouds hover.
He rarely speaks as he loses a bee or two among the birches
but keeps going forward and outdistances regret with the walk.
The wind resonates gently like a different kind of insect.
The beekeeper keeps moving, filtering and collecting his gold,
back aching, hands roughened, the past alleviated through work.





