I wash the hummingbird feeder.
The nectar is sour and fermented.
The ants crawled into its reservoir,
Sweet sugar luring them
and they leave Pheromone trails
so their sisters follow.

And trapped, floating upside down,
they seed the nectar with yeast
and the meat of their bodies.

The sun warms the feeder,
making an irresistible home brew.

And the hummingbirds return
to belly up to the bar. 
Until I wash it.

I think they’re angry saying,
        Well, I guess you’re off the list.

And then, because they remember nothing,
they come back tomorrow.