|
|
|
|
|
The Saga of the Swarm
It was Spring of the year, a time when we fear, that our bees have survived winter's storming. Lovingly reared, these hives we hold dear, full of bees which may go a swarming.
The Queen's apian fate is hinged 'round this date by a desire to expand the old home. But the long winters' wait, the spring which comes late, these things, they may cause her to roam.
T'was a warm spring like day, when I heard on my way, a louder than usual drone. The cyclonic sight of my bees in mid flight, meant the Queen was no longer enthroned.
It would be a mistake to allow their escape, of this I was entirely certain. I knew they'd land near, so I gathered my gear, to take up the Bee Keeper's burden.
Twenty feet off the ground, they settled around, a Spruce limb as thick as my arm. So I climbed that darn pine, with capture in mind, to retain those fool bees for my farm.
The scouts did their dance while I sawed, in a trance visions of multiple stinging The limb it came free as I clung to that tree, listening to myriad winging.
Sweat drenched to my socks, the swarm in a box, I lowered those bees to the ground. What a wonderful day, I now proudly say, 'cause that which was lost, was then found.
(C) David Reder 1994
|
