I was perhaps three or four when I first encountered them. Spring always brings flowery blooms, and these are what attracted them. Chubby and dark eyed, dark haired, small limbed, flickering wings stolen from fairies. They danced around their hanging treetop home and I watched in wonderment, too young to know what the bulbous growth sticking from the aged tree was. I had followed their floating amble from a bushel of the spring growths. I had never seen bees before, but they had seen my kind. They sent their brave soldier down onto my unknowing figure, and I went home that day with a bee sting, a memento of my visit to their hive.
Since that encounter, so much has changed. I got over my fear of bees, and the Earth trapped more gas and heat from us humans. Funny how so much can happen in such a short time. With climate change comes temperature change, heat that melts ice, cold that kills off newborn bees before they can hatch. We say we love honey but slice away at the wild places where bees hide. How could I live knowing that the actions I commit daily harm the life of another species? Yet flowers still bloom and I still waited for bees to come and spread their pollen, their mysterious magic over my life, ignored my guilt, buried it with so many other things. But while I storm around in my immature feelings, bees fall, their forms stiffened, never to rise one again into the sky. Spring brings flowers again, bees bring honey, fruits, and vegetables they cannot sustain, and we, I included, bring, in exchange for their goods and their struggle, the heat that is driving them to extinction.