“Oh! There is a bumblebee on the floor!”
She slides it onto a plastic gift card,
and covers it with a juice glass.
Six legs wave weakly in the air,
she tips the glass, tumbles the bee upright,
it lists sideways, a foreleg raised wardingly
and buzzes feebly, one wing barely moving.
“I wonder if the cats got it.
Should I just put it out of it’s misery?”
“Can you? I couldn’t.”
“I’ll just take it outside.”
“Wait.” I squeeze out a glob of honey.
The bee is oblivious with exhaustion.
She maneuvers it to face the amber bump -
a long proboscis lunges into the sweetness,
frantically pumps up the ready nourishment.
We gather round exclaiming, peering,
running for magnifiers (which don’t help much)
and then she takes the bee in it’s prison
to the picnic table and sets the glass aside.
An hour later, there is only the sticky card.