We Adapt
In the new heat, plant resin
clings to folds among stems, but these bees forage
trash. It’s swarm intelligence—a bee cloud’s
collective decision to adapt, each tiny brain
perceiving almost nothing, yet the swarm
forms a will to choose. I lick honey from creases
of my fingers, the harsh and sweet amber of it.
I just want more. I may be one in the swarm
—I can’t discern which cell I live in and
which inhabits my body. The swarm builds
its brood cells from petals, wax and mud. Only
there do eggs exist. The swarm is no fool.
