A bee scrawls across the sun-beaten pavement.
He stumbles and he falls.
This once proud insect, brought low
before my eyes,
tries to redeem the respect he once held.
Futile the fight.
When,
before,
he may cause crowds to account his presence.
The fragility of this bug now rests in the fate of heels and tires crashing
before him.
Futile the flight.
His wings shudder,
folding in the prayer
of lift.
To escape the threshes
of this brutal end.
Before long,
his dilemma shall find a resolute.
Fleeting; his existence, and the inevitability of his end.
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