I picked up a bee for the first time in years last week. I decided fate might have her turn and threw caution to the wind. She might sting me, I might react. She might not and for that matter neither might I. The NHS is still waiting to decide to tell me about that one. If, however, I left her in the middle of the path, she would undoubtedly be stepped on.
I offered a finger and she climbed aboard and slowly wandered into my muddy palm. She needed something other than a lift, so I dipped my other handed into the watering can and cupped a shallow pool of muddy water and offered it up to her. Carefully transferring her from one hand to the other.
She drank slowly. She washed carefully. I stared hard, moved in closer to watch how she washed, the way she stroked her antennae and cleaned her cheeks. And then I realised that she had turned her attention to me. She was now eyeballing me as hard as I was her. My heart skipped a beat and I drew back as I felt her buzz. I wondered if I had starred too long, if I had taken liberties and made her angry.
But as the buzz turned to a roar, I realised that she was just getting ready to take flight. That motor was kicking back into action, our time was up and she was gone, high into the sky. That internal roar was quite something, I felt like she was saying we’re both still here you and I.