This morning it is not light but sound that heaves me into wakefulness, a hymenopteric thrum that goes on, desolate and uneven, until I lever myself out of bed and go see the fuss. Shock sharpens me. Stuck between my curtain and the windows is a wasp of Paleozoic proportion, her palm-length bulk rising again and again as her head mows the glass and her wings whir. Do I free her, or hold her? Perhaps I should leave her to fumble, until scorched and exhausted, she falls into dust at my windowsill. I know her ways. I see her terrorizing local honey bee populations, Godzilla-like, in the flower fields of Hunchun's mountains. She climbs into their home to decapitate them, mandibles flashing like the blades of Musashi. The bees fall like scythed hay behind her. Why shouldn't she be my prisoner? But I can't do it. I carry spiders away from tub drain drownings, climb chairs to coax mosquito hawks out of bedroom corners, and nudge earthworms off roadways after heavy rain. I swing the window for her. Her own deep wing song harmonizes with the distant percussion of construction equipment. She doesn't notice at first although the escape route is colossal, like Salmon Creek yawning before captive Coho fingerlings on release day. Then, as if tugged by a bit in those bitter jaws, she lurches foward. Her heavy thorax clears the frame. I bite down hard on the urge to follow her out the window. I, too, want to breach the sky, to lurch into freedom, my cruel body longing for blood.