A bee fell in my coffee for the second morning in a row and once again I lifted him free on my finger. While watching him dry out I began considering a little story inspired by the event.
Would it be a fairy tale about little Betty Bee out to see what she could see despite her hive's old wives' tale warnings about sugar in any form other than flower nectar?
Would it be about a little boy who got stung by a bee and grew up to avenge his pain by giving EPA's approval for a pesticide that was poison to bees causing the colony collapse from which this bee is a rare survivor?
Would it be about learning valuable life lessons in the comfort of freedom inherent in solitary curiosity about natural phenomena without blinders of foregone conclusions, such as led E. O. Wilson from childhood to discover social biology?
Before I chose the theme of this latest urge to wrap reality in equally compelling words, the bee dried his wings with longer and more rapid flurries of activity … and flew away*.