Flight of the Bumblebee

The morning sun had barely begun to burn the dew from the lavender when the visitor arrived. He was a fuzzy, golden-belted bumblebee. From my vantage point at my table in the garden, I watched him navigate the stalks, his wings vibrating with a low, constant hum. He landed on a sprig of lavender with a clumsy grace, his weight causing the stem to dip and sway. He moved with a singular, frantic purpose, his legs dusted with pale yellow pollen as he probed deep into the fragrant florets. I found myself leaning forward, squinting to see the tiny, rhythmic movements of his antennae. What was he thinking, I wondered? Was this a map of scent and colour, a complex landscape of nectar-rich rewards, or was it simply a series of instinctual triggers; a biological imperative driving him from one bloom to the next? He seemed to treat the garden as a vast, interconnected web of energy. He didn't linger long on any single flower; he was a harvester on a deadline. When he took flight, he did so with…