A little rough around the edges by August but this zinnia can still attract the bees. Well, this particular bee at least. To be honest, I haven't seen any other bees buzzing around its dehydrated petals, waiting for their chance to scrape out whatever dregs of pollen they can find.
Perhaps, then, the bee has also seen better days? I've certainly seen fatter and fuzzier specimens in the garden, paying court to fresher flowers. So they make a suitable pair, I guess, the wilting zinnia and the ragged bee. There is someone for everyone, after all. Behold, you can see this timeless truth in the natural world should you care to look.
I'm reminded of the stooping, elderly Casanova and the plump jolie laide who runs my neighborhood coffee shop. Rather rundown and grubby, it's not a popular cafe. Most locals choose to walk to a gleaming Starbucks farther down the street. I only patronize the place when I'm in a hurry but Casanova is a regular customer. He's in there all the time, flirting with the barista of his dreams, chatting about how things used to be in bygone days.
"My usual, please, beautiful," he says when ordering. It's a love potion of hot coffee with milk and two sugars that she starts concocting the second she sees him walk through the door. "The nectar of the Gods," he says, taking his first sip.
What Gods? I wonder. Ancient, forgotten Gods, no doubt. Chthonic spirits of the Earth who still dwell in the tree roots, the undergrowth, the soil, the fungi, and even the compost of decaying flowers and grass clippings where dead bees take their rest until all is recycled by Mother Nature.
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