This morning, a honeybee caught my eye,
tracing a frantic path up and down
the café’s considerable glass door,
desperate for escape, her movements
painting urgency in every flutter.

What had lured her to this bustling bistro
in the first place, I wondered?
Perhaps the scent of honey, sugar,
or the inviting warmth of the lights inside?

Whatever the attraction,
her wish to now depart was quite clear,
yet she faced the daunting door alone,
a barrier as immense as a skyscraper,
a positively impossible task.

As I exited,
hot americano in hand,
I held the door like a courteous giant,
“After you, your highness,”
I gestured.

She gracefully floated out,
into the embrace of a waning wildflower spring,
murmuring a soft “Thank you, kind sir,”
in that distinct buzzy accent,
unique to her species.