COLD II

I am outside filling my bird feeders with seed. I am surrounded by a cacophonous chorus of birds, encircling me with their small bodies and strong voices—chickadees, sparrows, finches, juncoes, wrens, flickers, thrushes, jays, a crow or two.

The shadow of a small form, passing close by my head, appears in my peripheral vision and causes me to turn in its direction. It is a honeybee, flying erratically, heading downward toward the snow. It lands, still and silent. It's wings, which are moving ever so slightly, jerking subtly and rhythmically with the pulse of the bee's body, slow and stop. It relaxes and rolls over on its side, frozen.