Dave Bonta's three-line poem freezes a tiny moment: a wasp walking rather than flying, with its wings trembling as it goes. The detail that catches the eye is the phrase "on foot." We expect a wasp to be in the air, so seeing one crawl feels slightly odd, as if it has been grounded or has chosen to move cautiously. The wings, which should carry it away, just shiver.
The poem never says how the speaker feels, but the word "nervous" gives a clue. Wings can't really be nervous, so the speaker is lending the insect a human edge of anxiety, or perhaps noticing their own. The wasp becomes someone on high alert, ready to bolt. The mood is quiet, tense, and close-up. The speaker is watching carefully and probably holding still, aware of how near the creature is. The "her" suggests a gentle attention, too, treating the wasp as an individual rather than a pest. Fear and tenderness sit side by side in very few words.