bumblebees ovenbird There have been a lot of you. I didn’t really think anything of it. It’s summer. And you are the music that hums in the heat and yours are the mouths that the flowers open to. You’ve been coming and going from somewhere unknown, or at least it was unknown until I came to know it. I watched one of you disappear into a tiny hole at the outer edge of my backyard patio. Then I watched one of you emerge and fly off in a north-westerly direction, clearly intent on your work. Then I watched one of your kin return, pollen thick in their little saddlebags. To and fro and to again, down into this small hole in the ground. How did I not know a single thing about your home when you knew so much about mine? You know my yard—the birdbath that you drink from, the crocosmia so ostentatiously inviting, the sweet sap of the cranesbill geranium, the vanilla soft serve swirls of the dwarf hydrangea. You have your route mapped with precision, crossing the expanse of lawn all day. Fro and to and fro again. I watch you waltz through the front door of your subterranean abode. Of course, of course I’ll let you stay. You aren’t bothering anyone and it’s such a struggle to survive. You do more good for this earth than I do. It’s an honour, really, that you chose this corner of my yard to nest and build your tiny pots of wax, orange globes in a heap like a sink full of dishes. My husband says: Do you remember that year you thought we had bees in the eaves? And you wouldn’t let me call pest control because you couldn’t even think of killing vital pollinators? Remember how they turned out to be wasps? And we couldn’t go into the yard because they were so aggressive? And it was months before you finally let someone come to kill them? Yes, yes. I do remember. It was an honest mistake. And I wish I could have let them live, even though they wanted to murder me with their venom. But this time I’m sure they’re not wasps. You are ungainly flying puppies, aerodynamic guinea pigs playing harmonicas, animated airborne dust bunnies. Adorable! And look at your admirable work ethic! And you let me get to the water tap without bothering me at all. I do my work and you do yours and we get to exist in each other’s orbit for a while. I decide that you are guests and I will guard your little nest until fall when the cold will bring all but your queen to a natural end. I don’t plan to tell you about the brevity of your life. Believe me, it’s better not to know. I plan to observe. To let you teach me something about this world. To let you open my eyes. To let awe stick to the tiny hairs rising in delight along the length of my arms. To and fro and to and fro. 260704 ... ovenbird They are Common Eastern Bumblebees, an introduced species. Farmers brought them to the west coast to pollinate plants grown in greenhouses. They escaped, because of course they did. Life finds a way. And now they are completing their life cycle in the ground near my backyard faucet. They are, thankfully, not considered “invasive” in that thriving pollinator populations are a boon to the environment. But they now account for 40% of the bumblebees found in the lower mainland, and there’s some fear that competition for food and nesting sites will affect the success of native species. The ethics are murky, but I remain committed to letting them stay. They’re strangely gentle, given that they can sting repeatedly without harming themselves. Their stingers aren’t barbed like honeybees or wasps. But they show no aggression at all when I’m turning on the hose or working in the garden. I like the friendly feeling of just co-existing with another species. We can both make this place our home, and no one suffers for sharing. 260707 what's it to you? who go blather from