There comes this moment in May when I’m still anticipating the fresh green of spring, but looking up at the oak see it in a lustreless summer hue. A little rain would renew its sheen, but it’s been dry for weeks and there is no reprieve from this fleeting sense of loss.
Abruptly, there comes a noise, a rising hum almost mechanical in tone, but as I look for the contraption responsible, I see instead a mass of insects flowing over the line of hawthorns. The honeybee swarm swirls in a cloud before the queen, imperceptibly landing, triggering a leisurely implosion. Guided by pheromones, thousands of worker bees join her to form a solid ball, hanging precariously from the twig of a plum tree.
