A bee's wing rubs the hot tub's edge,an autumn leaf her burial rug
she looks to be napping
but upon inspection,
it's clear she's freshly drowned.
Her legs folded awkwardly
like a crumpled ballerina.
The plump bee needs no more air to drive her.
Trillions of her kind have supped the planet's flowers.
She matters no more nor less than any other bee
or any other flower or any other planet
or than me.
We are equal in our brief hunt for sweet.
In untold sunsets, we'll return together,
this bee and me, our shrouds of matter,
specks and sparks spinning in the furnace.
Our common destiny to drift from star to star
without a single memory.
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