the afternoon is settled
and the last bees are humming,
buzzing, quieter now,
from flower to flower.
less competition.

the long summer sun
has allowed them to
hum along forever it seems.
the heat grows, leaves tips droop,
and they are collecting with fervor.

their initial hunt begins
with the early rising day.
they head out over the city
in search of her milk.
her nourishing sweet life growing
milk.

the search is directed by the colors
of her display.
her richly tuned shades of violets
and yellows call them in.
they dart in and out, quickly,
focused, drawn in to dance.

that dance of her.
the one that encourages the let down.
the one that taunts the flesh.
her perfect dance.
it sends chills through my bones.

these drones fly drunkenly
by the end of the day.
they have beat their
wings against the same
pressure we feel, the same wind
we hear.

they grow weary as the sun shifts again,
we say good night, a short rest.
we process her nutrients in the dark.
quietness