My eyes close. I hear them. The bees. They are doing what bees do. The sound is so clear, so concise, its hard to distinguish where it ends, and where I begin. Wait. Perhaps there is no beginning or end. No! Merely sensory input, that insists on being interpreted in such binaries. Such a tragic human story, a comforting narrative. The beginning and end.

Am i the bees…? Only, separated by flesh, bone, and the story that is me? Or perhaps I am now merely their instrument. Here to play their tune, as to bring them into life via my being. For in me, they are more than just collectors of honey, the little pollinators that keep us alive. No, they are the sound that lives on through me, the sound that creates these words.

The bees are buzzing. Of course they are. The harbingers of life, with their practical utility, so infinitely more than mine. Yet, I am the one who can bring them to life in another’s mind. Flourishing into being within you, giving them another life through these words. They spring forth, as if they were truly there, alive as much as the bees I cannot see. Yet, must surely be there. Or are they?

This is the power of words. This is the power of bees.

– M L Wood

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