Bees in the Garden

By Peter Bowden


The sun lay warm on the garden, and the air held its hum. Bees moved from bloom to bloom, steady in their labor, small wings glinting as if dusted with light. Their flight was quick, certain, and without pause.

Yet in their murmuring was something more—an ancient rhythm older than the stones beneath the soil. Each flower bent in quiet reverence, as though yielding not to the bees themselves, but to the vast, unseen order that guided their work. To watch them was to sense a secret law written long before man walked the earth.

Still, it was beautiful. The snapdragons blazed pink, the salvia shone violet, and the air smelled of green things alive with fire. The bees swam through color and fragrance as if they remembered it from another world. He stood in the garden, listening, knowing the hum was both ordinary and infinite—that within the smallest motion lay the mystery of all time.


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