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About the Woodsmeister

The Bees

by Greg Grant

I heard on the radio
The Reds game was delayed
By a swarm of bees.

I imagine myself a bee.
My buddies and I,
We're out for a Sunday swarm.
The sun is shining--
It feels warm on my back.

We cruise in the tunnel
And there it is!
A lush, green field.
Lunch!

We swarm toward the field
It looks like grass,
But it doesn't smell like grass.
It's not grass.
We buzz for a while.
We look for clover.
There is none.
We leave the way we came.

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