I hadn't seen a bee since before the crash. One or two maybe. Never an indication of nest about.
Yet here they were, transferred by the thousands in truckloads to the plains of North Dakota for the purpose of pollination. I don't know what crop it was they served; nothing but wheat and prairie for miles as far as I could see. Not even a tree.
A few came round to investigate my yellow vest. A migrant worker myself, I said hello out loud. I'd not seen any in the city I hailed from for longer than I could count. It was a pleasant surprise.
Their color was more vivid, their bodies larger than the ones I remembered that day I was stung in the schoolyard as a hive hundreds strong wafted over the clover. We played a gentle game of duck and weave until they lost interest and moved on.
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