The History of Bluegrass The bees form a living mitt about the aspen’s narrow branch.  A woman tilts her wrist and plays the fiddle. They could become the glove of my body.  They could drown out my voice with their hum.  The woman never sings and plays in the same instant. They are mainly brainless, and not even aerodynamic.  They may have a taste for me. The Dobro moans. Or I could take a smoke pot and dress up.  Bees would wheel like so many stars, falling to the ground as constellations. There’s reverie without them, and now a banjo. Or I could collect them in plastic bags and let them inhabit an apple orchard. The woman moves on to a slow sad ballad. A pile of newspapers covers my lap. A few stragglers punctuate the chaise lounge.  They have lost their love for big ideas.