Occasionally, a bee finds itself trapped in our garage.
Its interior is dark save for the trio of shutter-dressed windows over the workbench. Seeking escape from the stifling darkness, he flies to a window, wiggles through its shutter, then clings to the promise of life.
He slips.
He tries again between shutter and pane.
And again he tries.
And again.
Entering the garage, I hear bee’s desperate fate.
But now a door is open. Life is but a brief wing on freshened air.
Still, he is trapped.
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“Well, you ask, “Why not open the shutter?”
”But I do”, I protest. “I open the shutter”.
I flutter. I shoo. I invite. I cajole.
I in all ways I urge my little friend to wing.
But then I must go about my day.
My little friend lies alone, lifeless, on the sill.
Timid of the lesser known,
he had bound his fate to a false prophet,
and was abandoned by his friend.
