Warrior’s Waltz

I listen to songs and melodies escaping
from the speaker connected to my phone
as I work on my final math problems.
In the corner of my eye,
I witness a groggy, injured wasp’s walk.

I watch as it drags its yellow leg
across the thick, dense carpet,
much like a soldier on a battlefield,
fighting its way through obstacles.
The loose carpet fur coils around it,
like plant tendrils around dead wood.

A ball of anger, it moves like pebbles
by a pond, carried downstream
with the motions of wind and water.
Its calmness is mesmerizing,
yet it’s almost in a panic,
navigating through a new field, a prairie,
an empty field of chaos.

Like a soldier at war, running from everyone
and no one,
it maneuvers through wedges and edges
in the folds of rugged fabric,
combing every crumb, tasting,
each decision,
a matter of life and death.

It becomes a source of shade, like a traveler
in a canyon’s atrium, relying on open rivers
for direction,
rivers contaminated by dirt, dust,
and rocks the size of grains of rice.

It climbs up a chair, slipping along metal’s grease
and black tack,
victorious in its final ascent,
looking over the canyon’s edge,
ensuring its disorientation.

Its wings lift as it prepares to leave,
defying its greatest fear,
and taking flight over the ground.