WILD ONIONS
An instinct for honey guides Big Bee.
Regardless of what anyone believes, we became friends on my maintenance route. Think of this as harmless fiction, if you will. The dialog is brief.
“Bee, you are so friendly, going from place to place with me.
Bumping my cheek.
Why?”
“If Alice had her white rabbit, you have me. A few friends
of mine have decided
we need a representative, a translator.”
“What's on your mind, then?”
Bee buzzed in a circle.
“Go ahead, Bee, I'm listening.”
“Things aren't going well,” said the small voice. “So many
friends have gotten
sick and died.
Plants getting sick. Blooms getting scarce. Can you translate
for us?”
“I don't know, Bee. There's politics that you don't understand.”
“Politics? Oh, I know. They think we're communists.”
It was imponderable. I thought about how prose, poetry and
politics
alliterate well, but otherwise occupy their own hives. And as I
wandered that path, Bee spoke:
“People who gravitate to the present system are predictably
psychopathic.”
“Not bad, Bee, but a hard sell. That wax has hardened. I'd like to
help but -- "
“You can fool most of the people most of the time. And if you
have an army,
that will do – until they catch on.”
Yank the bell rope! Ride the breeze with back claw carpet bags, yellowed. Livelswift rippled. Delicate see-through thousand-eyes drifting wind sock light, I'm a borrowed river barge, the running back fabricator of pontoons, or pretending English, the language is not fungible. But regardless . . .
The purple flowers Bee loves are in full bloom, happy after the record deluge that ended our record drought. And Bee has some gathering to do, a far journey to nowhere, as it began. Arriving home again. My neighbor had said, “It never ends.” We might stay tuned. It's possible now to end all the blooms at once.
“Something I've wondered . . .” buzzing past my shoulder,
“when a star dies,
where does the energy go?”
“That's screwball, Bee! But I understand. What can I do?”
“I leave it to you. Stir your metaphors, mix up some strange new
colors. Got my own route to go.
But I'll be back. See ya!”
First stop – right overhead. Little white bracts falling from nandina blooms, one by one around my chair. Squirrel arrives at the feeder, then the doves. Little finch makes a tentative pass at the dish of seeds on the table.
These aren't the precincts of CVS Pharmacy, or pimped presidents with promises of paradise. Or at least fairly close to that, whatever it is. It's skirted in that shallow expanse of ads where airtime is the Pope's promise. Be heard, be followed, and learn the prompts. Learn how a spy plane gathers its drugs. Don't forget history. But it all comes down to entertainment, right? It took quite a while to set things up like this.
There's a bee in your bonnet, count on it, until ill-bred mutants ignite the fireball for ill-advised hard hats, desk jockeys, the two thirds starving margin, the 99% onlookers who'll get blinkered.
Some plot ramen squiggles with a gold brush, splaying critter tracks that bleed off the page. Some calculate chaotic attractors in whirlpool loops, prayer beads that turned out to be agates, rolling dice for thunderous rain, complementary shades of yellow and blue, mauve fields plowing dreams never meant for canvas barriers. Strange harmony.
Are those followers a given, or just would be getters?
Eucalyptus trees perfume reclining shade. The old warriors gather in memorable tents, having gathered wild onions for dinner, and to ruminate old battles. I urinate on their blanket.
A perfectly natural result. Now draw conclusions. What will outlast the crayons of their generation?
As the day begins another shining universe, I see Big Bee on a gathering. Personally, I like a chopped apple steamed with Quaker oats, spread over yogurt with a trick of cinnamon. When they're growing out by the back fence, a couple of mint leaves go nicely,
After breakfast, I'll go visit the compost.
