There’s the strangest mix of ineffable delicacy with ferocity.
Fey things light sometimes and sometimes strike.
From the back, most delicate brushstrokes.
From the front, the apparatus of a working insect.
They’re not fooling around, they get it done.
Solitary, except by random if frequent juxtaposition;
or perhaps directed by a drunken choreographer.
Ontogeny incorporates phylogeny if you look underneath.
Flightpath direct and unafraid,
like a predator, not evading,
just up there, like a wasp, like a hawk.