Hornets build a nest every year in one of our oak trees. Before October, you’ll see the insects, but not the papery-gray globe they return to in the evenings. I sometimes stand in the yard, certain that this time, looking up into the green bursts of leaves, I’ll pick it out. And never do.
My wife found the remains of an unfinished one in the yard today; it reminds me of bark, or a weather pattern viewed from space. Sand patterns on a beach. The whorls of a fingerprint, no two alike.