A Man Who Sings To Bees

I heard a sound lilting like reed pipes wending through air grown heavy in dusklight sultry and organic rising from behind a pasture heavy with coarse hairs and droppings horses and their liquid eyes shedding winter coats (and masticated oats) even they know they're only scenery with withers to the wood line as a shadow rocks hypnotic rhythm timed to cicadas and honeybees a man a man who sings to bees? rushing to challenge a stranger in the yard I find him hatless in the swirling humming to himself to the hive to the dusk to his dark leather shoes turned just slightly away profiled yet indistinct wordlessly he sings to wounded hearts wistful hopes futures lost and silently I lie down beside wild onion, cooling grass listening to the rhythm deeply thrumming on the comb modulated voice, concert of a soul ort of treble, rumbled bass and opening my eyes I see no man no music only bees and me.