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If they were intelligent, sentient creatures, honeybees wouldn’t understand Walt Whitman. Their songs would all be of the group, never of the individual. They are social insects. I witnessed this morning their commitment to living together. Although I didn’t see the queen, I know she was somewhere there in the middle of the colony of workers and drones that swarmed in a great cloud of whirring wings and committed bodies at the local shop where I often go for coffee with friends. After unsettling customers and passersby, the bees finally settled in what was obviously well-ordered chaos onto a branch several feet above empty tables and chairs. They had found a new home, which even the powerful queen had no way of knowing would be temporary. The manager of the coffee shop was frantically searching the Internet for “Bee Removal Services.” No one was stung. After getting my photo du jour I rode away on my bicycle hoping the removal service would relocate them rather than kill them.

Robert, who was also snapping pictures, was obviously as fascinated as I was by the commotion the bees caused.