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.