This is a hornet nest that appeared in a slender tree above some of our blackberry bushes. Now when we pick the blackberries, we have to be careful as we reach, so we don’t end up with a handful of hornets. One might consider this a metaphor for the writing process – the reach into brambles, at risk of a bad sting, on a quest for sweet, purple-black berries – but then again, maybe not. Sometimes a hornet nest is just a hornet nest.
Or is it a poem? Or is it a story? I certainly have some hornet nest tale drifting around in the back of my brain, but if you come up with something before I do, let me know.