now...

Now is the time of year when the bees begin to die.

There, against the pavement, against melancholy disassociation, they move against the concrete but do not fly, having acquiesced to the reality of their fate. I've seen them over and over again in the past few weeks- several times, purely by accident, nearly ending their existence sooner with the press of a (more important) foot. When I see them, though, it is with intrigue and then resolution that I pass them by. What else am I to do with such a tiny fragile creature?

Their state makes you comprehend their minute lives; makes it very difficult to see them as anything more dangerous than their slow and quiet deaths against the warmth of late afternoon pavement. They are, in essence, the last remains of what was summer and so serve as some quiet, overlooked symbol of a season passing silently into another, leaving behind the tiny carcasses of warmer days and sunshine. Here on the ground, they die. In the last few moments of feeling the earth, I am certain they feel exactly as small as they are.