A Conversation of Bees

Loafing among the blossoms in my back yard, I discover that when I enter the silence, I can understand the language of bees.

I listen earnestly to their conversation, and hear the Queen Bee give instructions to the young honey-gatherers before they leave the hive. "Don't come back until you're good and drunk," she said. "I'll only let you in when you're reeking of sweetness."

I hear them buzzing among the flowers, each nestled deep in his chosen blossom, murmuring, "Mmmm, this is the only true flower!"

I hear another bee buzzing from rose to laburnum, crying, "Not this, not this!" Yet he never stays in one bloom long enough to find the pollen.
I hear a remarkably nervous bee buzzing through the air above, never condescending to touch a single petal. He seems to be a kind of philosopher. This is what he says.

"My way is the way of pure pollen without the petals. You are all too attached to fragrances. Don't be seduced by color and taste. Blossoms are but illusory forms. They are all appearances of one sap."

Indeed, he is a bony dried-up little fellow, with a buzz that becomes a desperate rattle, until he falls to the dust, dying of thirst. Perhaps he will fertilize other flowers.

The rest of the bees pay no attention to him, for each is busy humming, drinking the sweetness of its chosen bloom. Soon they're all drunk. Drenched and sticky, they stagger home, if bees full of wine can be said to stagger.

Gathering in the hive, they gaze at one other in astonishment, each agreeing, "After all, there must be more than one true flower!" Then they offer their gleanings of golden pollen to the Mother, whose silent blessing turns it all into honey.