There is a call (do you call for me?)
and the bees fall into swarm, fly out,
and do not return.
Warriors on the path, no notes left behind,
hive homes turn to dust and decay;
hexagonal birth and wax chambers dried out.
There is a place where the intuition leans towards
with a push and a pull beyond letters or description.
Do not describe what remains hidden.
A silent call amid the rustle of breezes,
a chill, a warmth that freezes,
and the few fly out to swarm anew.
The bees are the beautiful who knew.