Bzzzz.
Buz.
Bees know the difference.
Flying gracefully,
yet with the bulk of their rounded bodies,
they trudge along in the air,
the cargo freighter of insects.
Landing with surprising skill,
the pollen dance begins,
brief tugging and clambering and hardened legs,
No nectar here.
Without worry or seeming emotion,
it's graced until the next bunch of petals,
where the pollen dance begins again,
Something collected?
Something not?
Another bee,
not too far away,
does the same,
With the petal bunches there.
With what mine eyes tell me,
wine is sweet as nectar,
filling and smiling,
The over-tenderful drug of hearts.
Yet clarity does not form the wings here,
