After the long winter, the first pocket of sunshine arrives almost as a gift – I am dazzled.
The snowdrops cannot wait.
The stream still carries the memory of cold. The ducks have found a warmer stone than the rest, chests lifted, catching the sun.
They stay like that as if sensing something I had already forgotten.
I go to them.
It is true.
By the time the second pocket comes, the young magpies throw themselves into the air, fluttering from branch to branch.
The granny with the most carefully kept front garden steps out. With a stool and a cuppa, she gives herself to her plants today. This year, a few bunches of snowflakes have taken root in her garden.
A brown butterfly circles her once, then drifts off to meet its other.
The air is filled with buzzing from bumblebees.
Long, full, insistent.
Have I seen them so early before?
I don’t remember.
The third pocket.
A small dot moves in front of me, slowly and surely.
I crouch down – a ladybird.
How many spots? Seven!
Roses open up.
Their new mauve shoots are soft, watery and hard at the same time.
I cannot resist – stroking their new stems as much as I want before the thorns grow sharp.
The fourth pocket.
Neighbours shake out cloths, throws, sheets, old and new.
Suddenly, the back gardens flicker.
Then several days afterwards, without sun, without rain.
Only mist. Mist so prolonged that you are almost standing inside a postcard.
The cherry tree across the street keeps bees busy.
Even more bumblebees now.
And windy – petals are everywhere, especially on the pavement.
A big bee lies there.
Anything I can do?
I remember reading it somewhere that you can put a spoonful of sugar next to an exhausted bee.
But the bee seems to be unconvinced.
It keeps trying on its own, kicking its legs, but no use. Still struggling to move.
I approach it again.
This time, it seems to tolerate the paper I offer.
Following its edge, it climbs onto my palm.
The bee is large – too large for my bee hotel.
I carry it to a corner of the back garden.
How about honey?
It moves toward honey immediately – diving straight in, no hesitation.
But soon its antennae grow sticky.
Am I making it worse?
It’s night.
The bee finds itself a house – the gap under the paper.
I find myself tiptoeing between garden and kitchen.
Are they working this hard already, in early spring?
If only I didn’t fall asleep during that beekeeping documentary.
In the morning, when I can’t see it around its paper house at first, I’m relieved.
Then I find it on the floor, upside down.
I bring it inside.
It recovers a bit in the warmer air – legs kicking again, wings unbroken.
Doesn’t seem injured. Just too tired.
Now I take my chance to look at it properly: a furry chest, a thick body, antennae testing the new surroundings.
The internet search suggests that it may be a queen and I should have given her sugar water (1:1) right from the start.
Shouldn’t a queen stay safe in the hive though?
Are you a queen just awaken from winter?
Do you work too, like the rest?
Please forgive me.
She becomes a different bee after the sugar water: wings beating fast, the buzz returning at once.
This quickly?
Well, your colony will not build itself.
I offer her paper again. Now she accepts it.
I move her into the flower bed.
There is still dew hanging on the daffodils.
I’ve only just met you.
By the time I’m back with my tea, she’s gone.
