bees - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
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."
The bees move in patterns over the perfect golden hexagons. To the casual observer it's random and chaotic, but I know better. I've been studying these little beauties and they are nothing if not organized. If I look right at one bee I can see it's large black compound eyes. How strange it would be if we could see like they do, our vision would be so much worse with every picture a puzzle from hundreds of tiny lenses. But then we'd see the ultra violet patterns of the flowers that guide their insect pollinators to the nectar too and that would be cool.
The thorax of the bee is dark with golden hairs radiating outwards and their translucent wings originate here, as do three pairs of strong black legs, Their abdomen is a black and gold striped ellipse coming to a sharp point at the stinger. And all the while there is a buzz from the hive, a communal chorus of workers cooperating on their only mission; feed and protect the hive and the queen.
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.
In the smoke that fills the hive from the little tin watering can, that is now home to a burning rag, the bees become drunk and stupid. They move lazily and even the buzzing decreases. Now we move in clothed in coveralls and a netted hat to steal their honeycomb.
Bees are holding a friend's hand as you walk through the clover-rich grass, knowing that she will keep you safe from stingers. Bees are seeing black and yellow in the garden, becoming a statue so they won't notice, and hearing nature in its closest form because you accidentally took a moment to listen. Bees are the watermelons that drip cold juice down your chin in the summer and the blossoms that make them. They are the flowers you give to your lover and the hum in grassy fields. These pollinators may sting, but they do honey-sweet things for us.
When I see the bee it's just sitting on the rose bush. Not moving at all. I wonder if it's dead and move closer. It's a bumble bee, so cute and furry like a stuffy for a fairy child. But then it moves. I glance at my goose-fleshed arm and realize that this sudden cloud has stolen away the warmth of the day and this tiny beast has no protection. It's body heat has leached away through the pores of it's exoskeleton. It's cold. Too cold to fly. So I run for my camera before the sun is uncovered. There could be a junior photographer prize in this.
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.