The Sting Comes Later

All he sees is a ‘bee.’ Not its species: apis mellifera (or European honey bee). Not its wondrous anatomical makeup: mandibles; antennae, compound eyes; thorax; abdomen; fore, middle, hind legs with pollen baskets; fore and hind wings. Not its stinger. Nor does he recognize its importance to biodiversity on which we all rely to survive. It buzzes by—not in attack but as if pleading. He swats his hand in reaction. Here, he notices the bee is slow, sluggish. It tugs itself away in a struggling up and down trajectory. He follows. In the back, left corner of the yard, he sees a whole colony of bees dead at the base of a disintegrating honeycomb. He doesn’t think twice; blindly he pulls out his pocketknife—and scrapes enough of the disappearing golden gelatin for his morning toast.