Bees

The hive whines in the oak above the pool,

A rotted enclave yet a natural home

For these small gatherers.  First light, they fly,

Some favoring alyssum, others mums,

A few charmed by an open Pepsi can

Left near a lawn chair by my tanning daughter.

Toward noon, in quiet shallows, I see them

Slowing, circling. freighted with heat and hoard;

Some, visibly spent, totter to water's edge

And tumble in, wings crying urgent signals—

Two, three, at a time I fish them from

Bright pulsing circles of would-be demise.

They do me no harm for by now they know

The clumsy hulk attending them is friendly;

They wait to be redeemed, set on the deck,

Dazed, upright and happy for another day.

And yet they drop in numbers far too great

To save them all.  The dying, without further

Protest, wait numb and motionless to pass

Back into nature.  Such is an aging fancy,

Guileless enough to solemnize these passings.

The bee man wants the hive; he plans at dusk

To call on the queen—get her take on moving

To solid, more considered royal turf.

Moore Moran

From Firebreaks, Salmon Run Press, © 1999.
Reprinted by permission of the author.