Emma is expecting something, as she pulls up in front of the house. Dance’s phone call alerted her.
“Honey bees, all in the garden. A swarm!”
But–she wasn’t expecting anything like this. The roaring of uncountable wings penetrates the closed windows and engine noises of her old Volvo. In the sunset light, the air in front of the house is blurred with tiny golden bodies in vivid motion; whorls and streamers and galaxies— tornadoes and skyrockets of bees. The neighbors all stand on porches, safely across the street, turning wondering faces towards her home.
The noise increases in pitch as she opens her door. The bees spill over the boundaries of Dance’s garden into adjacent lawns, and eddy against the her car now that it’s still. Some of them land on the hood, crawling across the pinging surface– responding to the warmth, she figures. They tickle, and are unexpectedly heavy, on her bare arms. She lifts her hand to study one crawling on her wrist; the fine plush banded in nickle yellow and rusty black, the delicate, impatient wings, the glossy little head with its sturdy antennae. She can feel its claws release her skin on take-off.
Emma walks slowly to the sidewalk. Close up, she can hear a slightly higher pitch of individual thrumming as they flash past, and the hurtling bodies make her blink reflexively. She wants to call out to house, but is afraid to open her mouth, lest they fly into it. The family across the street is shouting at her to get away, get to safety, but Emma walks steadily between the bees to the gate, and into the maelstrom. Turning to her left, she sees them in sunlight– brilliant glittering gold, like champagne bubbles or confetti, and she finds herself laughing helplessly at the fantastic beauty. Bees rush towards her, part and head to the right, the left, over her head, while others are coming from behind her at the same time.
Dance comes out of the house, and she watches him glide through the golden cosmos towards her.
“This is many swarms,” he says loudly over the booming. “I have counted at least eight beeballs, and they won’t settle– too many other swarms, I think, not enough trees for them. I have never heard of this.” Living gold besprinkles his black hair.
“You are crying? I did too.” He reaches up and wipes her wet face.