Yesterday I took a bee from the water. She struggled, flapping her wings to no avail. She seemed so weak, so determined in her desire for life, so impotent despite all her exploratory science, and so solitary, despite her admirable solidarity as a worker dedicated to her community. I put a stick in the water, she clung to it, exhausted and, when put on the grass, moved a little, coming back to life, little by little before resuming her vibrating sound. How could she have fallen here? Was it to drink? Had she thought she'd seen a water lily? Did she want to be reflected by the water and make herself beautiful?
The following day, in the same place, I returned to see the inert body of a bee floating in the same puddle. Was this my little suicidal narcissist of the previous day? Or another equally imprudent? I did the same as I had done before, but I'd arrived too late. The bee had been united with her creator. I was sad all day. Sadness that made my stomach hurt.
I feel so close to my little bee that the tears run down my cheeks and fall on the ground. Caught by the wind, one of my tears falls in the puddle which becomes more salty, more fragrant, brighter in the sun. And the reflection in the water resembles a flower.