I was big, (relatively speaking) and he was scary.

I blindly reached into the brush to clear the Spanish Moss that had dropped during the last bout of wind.

Trusting the void held nothing but empty space.

He, unbeknownst to me, had laid claim to that patch of moss. Had it earmarked for an upcoming project.

Took offense to me removing it.

What I saw as an eyesore, he saw as home improvement.

I spotted him before he laid eyes on me.

Noticed his stripes, his war paint.

His missing antenna, his lack of a stinger.

Allowed him the bravado of flapping his wings and “scaring” me away.

Gave him the win and saved him his dignity.

Withdrew my hand, forfeited the game.

Vowed to return, to finish what I had started, once he had flown off in a half circle, impaired by his lack of appendages, to his hive, to brag to his significant other how he had been scary and frightened off the “big.”