bumblebee, kindred spirits and, appreciative others
© 2025 Iony Smith
Falling upside down, its tiny, setae and plump belly, plopped
before my reclined body with gazing eyes drawn to this clearly
(obviously), distressed bumblebee.
I watched its leg-lift disturbance and became saddened as its
slowing motions suggested terminal, culmination was near.
Such a surmise made many times before and likely again, through
witnessing the final throes of a depleting wellspring, having no
idea how it graced upon the scene so intimately, in a space now
sharing together.
With this smallish figure struggling yet with the outcome
presumptuously determined, a tear trickled down my cheek. To end
its convulsions using a screwdriver as a compassionate guillotine,
a quick off with its head concluded the
turmoil (mine as much as the insect). The separation was (I
hoped) painless, yet I was not the recipient of such thrust
however succor in my intent.
On a chisel I had been using to clean lawn mower blades, I
gingerly lifted the insect's remains and walked them to a grassy
knoll just a few feet from the concrete floor of my
workshop. There, into the wind went the bumblebee along with
my goodby. Weeping silently, to this happenstance - deep
breathing, I think.
Whether such acts of mercy were (and are) misguided and contrary
to some cosmological balance, rather than allowing this modest imp
to (and for) itself, control its last breath without pious
intervention, I know not. Might the devise of control
be more of an accommodating appeasement of/for ultimate
submission?
The certainty of inevitability whether resisting or surrendering,
be it within anthropomorphic prose or conjuring up a rhythmic and
upbeat form of ontological reflection, is how such endings resolve
for all living organisms. However harsh the landing, as
softly is the final touch, it would be hoped, who is alive to
tell?
My similar connection or reverence is not extended to the
sucking female mosquito (engorging to the extent necessary to lay
eggs), and its male counterpart, still a sucker but not engorging
similarly. Swatting and squashing this invading vector, for
me, is a dry eye event with little remorse.
No remorse at all, however, can be brought to bear upon the tick,
that lowly, parasitic arachnid (Ixodida). A most recent
encounter with its burrowing and extraction from my arm, and
taking several days for the itchy and swelling bump (lump) to
subside, is not an attachment based on empathy nor a salubrious
and coveted joining.
Irrespective of its service in the food chain for birds, lizards,
vermin (and ironically, also serving as hosts for that same tick)
and, its impressive universally earned odium that must surely
rival the mythic attributes of the all mighty cockroach, the
scurrying and skating roaches, for me, are preferable to the
stealth and subterfuge of that nasty, inconsiderate
tick.
Although some consideration in their secretion of both an anticoagulant and anesthetic to keep the blood flowing and prevent the host from feeling the bite, still an insidious invasion when feasting upon the blood, nah, ticks you can plainly see, are not for me.
postscript (after the above was placed on this website for
several months as completed): In conversation during a walk
with neighbors sharing in the infinite and finite alike, we all
gazed into the stars. And on our good side, a ribbon
of a beautiful and fertile backdrop enriching and elevating our
repose and repartee.
Through the fringes of immortality and, during this lofty and
stimulating discussion, I worked in my subject on the bumblebee
and the other two bugs, so defiled.
In our warming circle under the thickest color of skies in
twinkle mode, I heard words from another as thin as air but as
heavy as force upon an irresistible pause ... ticks are just
trying to survive the only possible way they can, the
only way they know how, the only way they were designed.
A pause, at the very least, I will hear (and feel) again, when
in the motion of swatting oblivion.
