The Bee by the Water Tray

By Ted M.

A friend showed me his beehives one summer afternoon.

It had been unusually hot.

The bees needed water.

Shallow trays sat beside the hives, and the air was full of movement.

Bees arrived.

Bees departed.

Some landed briefly at the water’s edge before returning to the colony.

The hive seemed tireless.

Then I noticed a single bee on the ground beside one of the trays.

It wasn’t dead.

Its wings were intact.

Now and then its legs moved, slowly, as if it had forgotten what came next.

The other bees passed overhead.

This one remained where it was.

I knelt down.

The bee was perhaps three centimetres from the water.

Three centimetres.

A distance that should have been nothing.

Yet it wasn’t moving toward the tray.

It wandered in small, uncertain circles.

For several minutes, I watched.

I wondered whether it was thirsty, exhausted, or simply near the end of its life.

Then I realized I had no idea how to help a bee.

I considered using a leaf.

I considered my finger.

I considered doing nothing.

Each option seemed equally unconvincing.

The bee’s tongue appeared briefly and disappeared again.

It seemed to be searching for something.

Without thinking much about it, I dipped a fingertip into the water.

A single drop remained.

I lowered it toward the bee.

The bee stopped moving.

For a moment, neither of us did anything.

Then its tongue touched the water.

The drop disappeared almost immediately.

Its antennae twitched.

It took a step forward.

Then another.

I stayed there, crouched in the dust, holding my finger out like an idiot while a bee drank from it.

My friend eventually asked what I was doing.

“Nothing,” I said.

He didn’t believe me.

The bee moved away.

Or perhaps it flew away.

I stopped watching after a while.

The hive continued its work.

The other bees continued arriving and departing.

Everything returned to normal.

I went home.

For the rest of the day, my fingertip still felt warm.

Ted M. is a gardener in Vancouver, BC.