Humblebee

April 27, 2026

Greetings from the hive,

I first saw him at the door in the garage, he was leaning on the edge of the window, hanging on. I might not have noticed him except that I heard him say something. Hmnmnm. Hmnmnm.

On the other side of the glass the sun was painting the east in cameo shades. The first rays were dabbing at things, shrinking puddles, drying tears on the leaves, tidying the pools of damp left by the rain.

Spring had rushed in as if it were about to miss its train. Punishing rain, wild wind scattering anything loose it its way, schizophrenic swings on the thermometer. And behind it the nearly instant explosion of growing. Grass suddenly stretched toward the sky, nascent blossoms appeared, leaves sprouted. Robins trolled the lawn for worms lured to the surface by the dampness. Color unfurled. The trees sent tiny bright green ambassadors into the lawn.

It occurred to me the bumblebee had wandered into the garage to hide from the storm and got trapped there. Maybe he had been there for days, bouncing against the glass, and finally just wore himself out. He gripped the narrow trim, still, but made one last comment: Hmnmnm.

I took a thin shim of wood and nudged him from the lip of the window, and he dropped to the ground with a tiny thud. Whatever flying skills he had were beyond him. He stumbled along the sawdust and pine needles, bits of web and dust collecting on him. I slipped the wood under him and lifted him over the lip of the threshold. He staggered along the metal plate and then summersaulted off the edge onto the sidewalk. I looked away, embarrassed for him.

In the sunny space just beyond the door he rolled on the cement, turtled for a moment in a crack, his legs flailing helplessly. Then his wings pushed him over and he sat still in the sun, dazed. Like his first day back in the gym after a winter of watching reruns. I waited just a moment longer and said, “You can do it.”

The next day I came out into the backyard, swaths of sunlight flung across the grass, saw him under the white pines, looping among the ground cover, dancing between the purple flowers that dotted the green there. He was too busy to visit, obsessively ducking in and out of the flowers, dipping in, backing out, floating to the next. I said good morning and he paused in his hovering long enough to show he heard and then went back to his work.

Chipmunks raced around him, chasing some dance that spring inspires. They scampered up different trees and then chirped little laughs and raced down again. The bee was not distracted.

A few times I have walked around the house to find him, and I heard him before I saw him. A deep bass hum, a resonance of something living as it should. I saw him weaving amidst the shrubs, looking for something more interesting on the menu.

Later I spotted him walking along the loam under the bushes, lumbering on that moonscape, nosing between little shadow places. Then heaving himself up, igniting that deep vibration, wavering a little, clumsy even in flight. He looked like a fuzzy stone trying to fly. He waggled his stubby torso at me and I waved, both of us happy to see each other.

I read somewhere that for generations they were called ‘humblebees’, which delighted me. It seemed so much kinder than the image of my friend bumbling through his day, perhaps envying the more svelte cousins flying around him. When I thought of it again, it seemed so much more appropriate. He has none of the hubris of the dragonfly or the aggression of the yellowjacket. He seems to be simply about his work, and in between, he hums.

The mornings are filled with birds, not as chatty as they will be, but I hear them getting acquainted. Once the dew begins to dry, they are swooping into low places, taking things for nest, sampling the smorgasbord. The cardinals and chickadees roll their eyes at the migratory latecomers.

The sun shakes off the night a little earlier each morning, lifting itself over the edge of today, peaking through still empty branches. The maples rush to open petite flags, to gather the light, and turn it into something. Other trees, vying to be first, fill their arms with purple and violet and white. Spring does not award prizes, but you might suspect otherwise.

Yesterday I was trimming things that have already grown beyond their border, and I heard the bee playing the rhythm section to the afternoon symphony. I sat on the step and waited to see him, and moments later he whirled into sight. He skimmed the tops of the grass, intent on some purpose he didn’t share, not wanting to distract me, no doubt.

I have been tempted to give him a name, just so I could say hello to him when we met, but in that moment it seemed an imposition. He might already have a name, and likely he would be too polite to correct me, and then we’d have that awkwardness. And of course he would never assume to name me.

We have not spoken of how I found him, I don’t want him to be shamed. Somehow I know he is grateful, even though we choose to keep that memory in a quiet place.

Just now I went out in my bare feet, knowing it was too cool for him to be out yet. But just the expectation that I might see him, just the idea that we would know each other, made me smile.

Spring brings the usual delights, and when we pay attention, a few surprises.

Hope this finds you buzzing,

David

This essay was written by the author and does not include Ai content.

Copyright © 2026 David Smith