Bees don’t bother me; mosquitoes, yes! But not bees.
In the summer they often explore my lunch to see what there is to glean.
I give them what they want.
It’s usually a little water and a speck of fat or juicy something.
So I set some aside for them at a safe distance. We have an understanding.
No, I don’t bother them and they don’t bother me. I don’t kill them. I don’t poison them.
They tend the flowers along side butterflies, hoverflies, ladybugs and an occasional lost dragonfly.
Bees don’t think too far ahead; their world is ours, deconstructed in patterns of colors and highways mapped in the air in 3D. Sometimes there are accidents and errors of judgement.
Once a gardener told me I should fumigate one of their hiding places, the wall behind the clothes line, because I could get hurt. I shrugged.
I knew they’d change their minds. The stones get too hot.
Ants keen on the space chased them away in no time.
Every once in a while a draft brings a bee indoors and she will flail against a window reaching for blue skies. I used to trap them in a glass and set them free–a bit battered–until I realized they can only see freedom as light.
It is brightest beyond the glass pane. They don’t understand the obstacle.
Now I close the shutters from outside. Take away the light and they find the way out by themselves.
Like me. Withold the love and I get away.