I work in a lovely wood-paneled sunroom at the back of my house, the south side. In winter, it's the only place to get any sun at all, and in the summer, though it gets quite warm, it's a glorious spot to ruminate. My better work comes in the summer, when I sit in cutoffs, drink something cold,, sweat, and write. Today was a lovely sunny day, 85°, perfect for a column. I did not spend it in effortless writing. I spent much of the day watching a bumblebee outside my window.
Lurking.
It made no attempt to conceal itself, nor did its hivemates, great fat bugs half the size of my thumb. Mostly they hover, a foot or two from the window, bobbing slightly to draw the eye. Letting me know they're watching me.
They don't like to be watched back, at least not very closely. When I stand at the window, the nearest one will jerk once or twice, rotating in place to peer at me, birdlike, from different angles, then zip away with surprising speed over the neighbor's roof. Three or four are up there now. Only when I return to my seat does another bee return to float a foot or two outside the window, monitoring me once again.
The bees are building a nest. They're watching me to decide whether I'm the type to go after their nest with a can of Raid. I am. I'd use napalm on the filthy things if I had any. Stinging insects frighten me, and I'm happy to get them before they get me, as long as I'm at no risk of being stung. Those fifty-foot range spray cans-o'-poison are a wonder of modern science on par with penicillin in my book. I know the bees are building a nest because there's a dozen or so out in plain sight, ignoring the flowering plants, just scouting the neighborhood, like a six-legged communist menace, seeing if my house is ripe for subversion.
When I came home from my daily walk, I waited in my driveway, hoping to follow one back to the nesting site. Not a chance. The fat little sentry just hovered, watching me for a minute before trying to throw me off by ducking behind a hedge before returning. When that didn't work, he ? sorry, she ? tried the same trick with a fence. But she wouldn't head home, even once I explained what I could do with a butterfly net and a can of Comet. Loyal even in the face of death, like any good fifth columnist. Probably had a cyanide capsule wedged in her mandibles in case I forced her to talk.
Well, I will find out, sooner or later. I've got my larder well-stocked with lunchmeat and carbonated beverages, I have enough poison under my kitchen sink to deserve EPA prosecution, and I've been alerted to the threat of the international apiary conspiracy. My precious bodily fluids are pure. Watch me all you like, bees; I'm watching back.