bees - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Into the honeyed light of day come the bees, blessing each flower as they pass.
In a meditative buzz of togetherness, the bees sung their way through the summer haze.
The bees were poems upon that wide blue page.
Nature fashioned her bees as beautifully as her flowers; together they were the finest of art.
The bees were as sweet as the nectar they sought - each was the brilliant yellow of every sunny daydream with reassuringly dark bands.
The bees come to our urban meadows, to the wildflowers we planted in our lawns. They buzz around the choir of blooms, nature's music in these sunshine filled moments. The children run through the pathways they make as they play, giggling for all the fun it is to run in such tall grass. This was all it took to save our bees, and ourselves, to plant what has always been here on this land.
Did we ever stop to wonder if the bees need the anti-microbial action in their honey? Did we ever wonder why the ability evolved? Because the sugar syrup substitute they get doesn't have it. Did we ever wonder if there was a maximum amount of honey we could take and leave them still healthy? Did we ever wonder how much their little bodies could take before we started spraying the pesticide and herbicide poisons? Or was the mantra of commercialism too shrill? The siren call of greed?
Show me a person who stands up to greed and I'll show you a hero to humanity. Surely saving the bees should be a "top of the agenda" item for every nation, otherwise it'll be a hell of a rough "predator-prey cycle."
Bee removal has been my job since before most folks leave high-school. To the folks that call me they're a menace, but to me they'll always be my six-legged friends. Where would our ecosystems be without the honey bees? I take in the smoke machine and pump it until they are good and drunk, moving in slow motion. They I take them away to a new life if one of my hives, to do what nature intended in a place that won't bother folks.
There are nights I dream of their buzzing, of the flashing of their wings. That might sound like a nightmare to some, but to me it's the calling of my soul. I rescue them, bring them home. That makes me weird I know, but it takes all sorts to make a world turn around and we can't all be straight pegs.
The bees move as if to unseen instructions, to unheard music, that sends their tiny feet scurrying over the hexagons of wax. Their wings glimmer like the surface of ruffled ice, reflecting the bright August sunlight. Together they make more than the honey, they make a larger organism that is their community.
The bees fill their chambers with the amber fluid, viscous and sweet. In the darkness of the hive it could be any colour at all, but as soon as sunlight hits it the hexagons they will all be golden. The honey will taste of the clover that fills the meadows nearby and brighten every morning right through the winter.
Bees are thick in the meadow, a tuneful addition to the summer air. Pamela is nervous around them having been stung by a wasp last season. Leo takes her hand and gives her one of his boyish smiles, "They sound the same. They look similar. But just like with people, it's what's on the inside that counts."
Bees are such simple creatures, but can you imagine making one? Holy cow! You'd have to recreate their DNA to start with, then what? Make an artificial cell to house it in? Every time I see one flying by on their way to pollinate and make honey I'm reminded what little miracles of evolution they are and say a little prayer of thanks that He made them possible in His world.
"Bee hive removal, all types of bee" is my business card. There are so many jobs that need doing in this world and mine is one of them, caring for the bees, making sure they survive. What use is pushing paper in an office? I'd have to be so medicated to take a job like that. I live to see their furry bodies dancing over the hive, their buzz saturating the air that has a tincture of honey, that understated sweet fragrance. Then they're off to a new life where they're appreciated for the little miracles they are.
Our primitive brains, our caveman, thought, "Bee? My Honey!" Our higher brains have the same intense feelings when we fall in love, "Be my honey?"