It was a brilliant spring morning the breeze blowing gently in off the coast. The dew drops drying in a slightly sticky way on the end of the juniper branches. She flew as she always flew on these mornings to the clusters of flowers that her sisters had told her about. Working tirelessly, churning and gathering masses of pollen from the bright yellow flowering squash plants that swayed seductively in the sunlight. Growing slightly drunk from the work and the pollen as well as the heat of the late spring morning. Soon she was headed back to the hive with the results of her gathering. The golden rays on her shoulder and the trail of scent in the air let her know she was going the right way. Back and forth she swayed magically through the wafting heat from the meadow.

The hive was bustling today. She flew in to the mad frenzied dance of her extended family. On to the honeycomb to regurgitate her prize. As she flexed and regurgitated her pollen she noticed a strange feeling, the back of her head felt sore. She had not noticed this feeling ever before and it itched uncomfortably. After she deposited her treasure she noticed her sisters seemed strange as well. Something wasn’t right, something had changed. The hive was not playing the right jazz she had become accustomed to. The jazz was disjointed, the dance had become slower than it should have been. The honey was wrong. It was tainted. It was as if someone had introduced an insidious poison into their unwitting midst. She flew away without recharging. She need to escape this feeling on the back of her head. Maybe if she flew fast enough!

She flew as this great feeling of dread crept over her. The sun had become darker even though it still shone brightly. The world was harsh and sharp, it cut into her perception like glass. She headed for the blue on the horizon. Maybe the blue would still the dread and kill the buzzing inside her head. Her wings seemed to move without her conscious thought. Somehow they seemed to be slowing down but in actuality they were speeding up. Over the junipers she soared, higher than she had ever flown before. Over the black top road along the shore where the heat now rose in billowing zephyrs. The sand now beneath her like an endless ribbon bordering the blue, the blue. The salt pierced her eyes and nose now. She was miles from the hive but she did not care. Only to escape the feeling in the back of her head, that’s all that mattered.

The sound became muffled and slowly faded to silence. Her energy now ebbed and a dying calm came upon her. Things were dimming, dying, darkening. The engine sputtered as the train ran out of track. She hit the hot sand just as a wave from the incoming tide broke over the masses of her dying sisters beside her. There was nothing now but the rumbling of surf and the churning of sand. Her sisters and herself no longer.

“Honeybees are responsible for approximately 80% of all fruit, vegetable and seed crops in the United States.” — Beebrothers.org

Watch: The Dance of the Honey Bee

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