Swarm.
Bees from a cleaved hive dive skyward,
draw upon the raw October air.
A hair shirt, a turret, a plague doctor masked thereof.
A single modest opera glove and a clove
of garlic in a starlet coat.
Oh, but when the wind its gusts gets in an uproar,
that glorious swarm explodes.
Grows thin, explodes again, and in an Autumn's dimming
is mistaken for some mist.
A wisp.
A wasp of smoke.