Firing the Nest

Now the nest is down: the hornets burned: the smooth brown bodies blackened, and the wings singed.

Last night we made a torch of rags; we dipped the rags in kerosene and struck a match: the flames went up.

We fought from ambush in a night attack, scorching the city without the scream of a siren, barring escape with fire, ended by rocking the walls off their foundation. Now we are satisfied.

This morning we swept out the ashes, a few charred bodies that we had seen glisten in sunlight.

The locust sounds through the heat, alone, for the hornets are quiet, stuffed with dark smoke, and the cells

of a new generation unhatched, shrivelled and crisp on the sand. It was simple, destroying this city,

beating it down from the rafters. We must be careful not to be taken for hornets.