Springtime

The fruit trees are in bloom. Bees are busy in every blossom. The garden is ablaze in soft colors of spring.

My attention is drawn to a line of bees that seem to be coming and going from the living room wall that faces the garden. Upon inspection, I discover a small hole in the wall. Bees are going in and out of it. The wall is warm to the touch and full of activity from a hive in there.

I call a beekeeper. I tell him I want him to move the hive—intact, bees and all—to a better location where they can flourish.

He inspects the wall and with regret he says he can’t remove the hive without destroying a good portion of the wall. What if I leave the hive there? He says it will just get bigger and I run the risk of having a swarm of bees inside the house. The only alternative is fumigation.

He goes to his truck and returns in his beekeeper's clothes. He puts on his helmet and lowers the face shield. He positions the nozzle of the cylinder inside the hole. He sprays once, then again. The hive reacts with intensified buzzing, then it lessens until there is nothing left but silence.

tea with honey—
the bitterness
in my mouth