By Jo Shapcott
I waited all day for tears and wanted them, but
there weren’t tears. I touched my lashes and
the eyewater was not water but wing and fur
and I was weeping bees. Bees on my face,
in my hair. Bees walking in and out of my
ears. Workers landed on my tongue
and danced their bee dance as their sisters
crowded round for the knowledge. I learned
the language too, those zig-zags, runs and circles,
the whole damned waggle dance catalogue.
So nuanced it is, the geography of nectar,
the astronomy of pollen. Believe me,
through my mouth dusted yellow
with their pollen, I spoke bees, I breathed bees.
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I had an uneventful Tuesday -- a few chores and apartment projects -- until afternoon, when we went for a walk before my Voyager group, which watched "Fury" (which I had remembered making me, well, furious, but now I just don't care enough to feel more than aggravation at what they did to Kes). We saw the end of the Orioles game and most of the Mariners game around dinner.
We even got to watch some of the Dodgers-Diamondbacks game, which started a couple of hours late because of a large beehive on the netting behind home plate that had to be removed before it was safe to start. Now we're sitting through MI-5, which isn't great but at least isn't rooting for the terrorists. Here's some of the fun I had and shopping I did at the PNW Witches' Market on Sunday:
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