meadow curled at the edge of the bison field where we
caught bees in clear plastic cups—brought them
to the man who painted their backs with nail polish 
& kept a running tally of their species, checked 

bumbled abdomens fleeced with pollen. wings kicking 
up prairie sky. galls swelled with heat & the foxgloves 
cracked open their heads: flushed purple. scientist’s
quick fingers laced the bugs with tones. the bison calves

lay down in grass & mum kept wondering when
the safari would start. you & dad & o (though not o 
yet, plum-sized) worked the meadow systematically, 
locked eyes and covered the bees in transluscent 

hollows. years later, i watch a show where a woman 
from the future (future of the future—see how quickly 
this doubles) puts bees to her face to exfoliate. we buzzed
in that field, pressed against light the solar panels 

gathered behind us. our bodies easily turned invertebrate
beneath glass. the summer sun set itself down in the mud, 
cusped like polish on afternoon’s back. the bees flew away 
heavy with gloss. that august, entomologists fixed tags

the size of watch batteries to monarchs’ wings to listen 
to them fly. traced the butterflies as they moved along 
the lip of generations. imagine the sound they made 
through wide open score—the metronome tick.

Bios

Tazi Rodrigues

Tazi Rodrigues is a writer and biologist who studies movement and fresh water in both disciplines. A second-generation settler from Winnipeg, she currently lives on the unceded land of the Anishinaabe Algonquin Nation. [updated Spring 2025]