The air beneath the tree is thick with the crush of apple blossoms and the heavy whirr of bee's wings, flying out their unwieldy patterns, their unlikely flights. A drizzle of dour serious honey bees, seeming so precious and rare, dusted gold and motorcycle black, working each limb, each blossom. The thick bounding flight of bumble bees, as big as grapes, as black as spilled ink, with their wild machine buzz and arcing dives and spirals. A small comfort as eyes weigh the pollen count in daubs of tears, the heady scent of apple and pear blooms sweetening the dust air. The sun slipping through the tree limbs bright and ragged, feeling a little like nostalgia, like memory trickling down the skin. The threadbare traces of lost fauna. The sound of bees a-flight.
nexus:
Why thank you!