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Did you know, when it begins,
a colony has just one wingless queen, who stripped herself of the ability to fly when she went searching for a place to make a home? Some little, mortal calculus tuned sharp to instinct: I'll be earthbound if I get to stay alive. She seldom tunnels into sound hard wood, but waits for the place that asks for her body, that's already gone some distance toward dissolving: the farthest corners of the farthest barn, the wasted logs yielded to rain and rot, the oak that something else has killed long before she came for it. She has taken herself apart like this, flightless and fit for excavation, to aid in the undoing of whatever needs to go back to the earth. Every other body that she bears will emerge suited for the same strange task of making nothing out of something, forging a hollow, then a perfect lack. Imagine it: Where all your dead and leaden things once loomed, there is an open hillside; just where your shoulder blade stops, smooth and hardened, there was once a wing.
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