Bee's End

Bee's End A dozy, dying bee lands on the arm of my blue shirt. I flick it away and it falls to the pale, warm slab at my feet. How long has it been, bee? Twenty days? Thirty? Perhaps not that. Eight hundred kilometers of flight for half a teaspoon of honey. Work, work, work, wearing you out. Now you're crawling alone with the last of your pointless pollen, waiting for the end. It's nearly over, but not yet. The ants have seen you. And here they come, those bastard ants.