The bright pink birdhouse my granddaughter painted hangs from a branch I can see from my bedroom window – it delights me to wake to that spot of color in the leafy tree with its delicate trunk Her grandfather hung it so she could easily see it when she bounds out of the house to play on the grass Only on closer inspection do I realize it hangs next to the container of dead wasps, their decomposing corpses piled in layers on top of each other – wings, heads, abdomens parting ways The bee trap is behind the birdhouse, not readily visible I doubt she’ll notice it But now that I know it’s there, I lie in bed looking out at the flash of pink and see the den of death that sits adjacent with its disconnecting stacked bodies, its tiny, crumbling transparent wings, and my hand resting on the white sheet, the papery skin stretched thin above bulging veins like earthworms uncovered in wet ground.