I scoop a honey bee out of the dog’s water dish
with a stick. She’s still alive, but barely, it seems,
and I place the stick on top of the fence frame
and watch her for awhile. She can’t fly. Her wings
are water-logged. She uses those forelegs to work
her mandibles somehow, as if cleaning herself,
perhaps, in her little bee way trying to expel
the water in her little lungs. I’m not even sure
a bee has lungs. Looking at the internal anatomy
drawing of a bee on my smart phone: no lungs. How
do they breathe, then, I wonder, but I don’t look
that one up and it remains a mystery.
I watch that bee for a long time and find myself
sincerely hoping for her full recovery and return
successfully to the hive. I go into the house
for a cookie and a glass of water and when I come
back out into the yard, there’s no bee on that stick.
She’s gone, and I make up a story that my hopes
have been fulfilled and that the honey bee survives
to live out the rest of her 30 to 60 days.
Sometimes it’s better to remain in the dark.
michael jarmer 