Queen bumblebees spend over two thirds of their lives hibernating in small cold holes. After the community they once knew has buzzed into the beyond, each bee burrows, alone, to wait out winter.
Their wings held now by dirt rather than air, do they remember the golden dusts of summer? Do they curl towards phantom petals, hear the companionable hum of ghosts, or long for a honeyed firmament?
I can’t help wonder if bumblebees spend month after month of their short lives quietly pressed up against mud, ice, root and rock, telling themselves stories.
And how about you? Like me, do you find yourself settling in this winter, telling yourself stories you’re hoping will some day wing their way to others?