That buzzing-noise means something. You don’t get a buzzing-noise like that, just buzzing and buzzing, without its meaning something. If there’s a buzzing-noise, somebody’s making a buzzing-noise, and the only reason for making a buzzing-noise that I know of is because you’re a bee.
– Winnie the Pooh
The air had finally lightened its grasp on the earth, and it was easier to breathe. The bees hummed from one purple flower to the next, hoping to carry home enough pollen to fuel their hive. The air—as light as the bees wings, now—brought fall on its shoulders and whispered through the dying leaves of the trees in my backyard. Mockingbirds sang and the jays gargled at me as I walked through the crunching leaves under the silver maple. I know they watched me, wondering what I could possibly find interesting under that tree. Perhaps it was their sweet call, as if they were calling for their families to return home. If only I could join them in their cozy nests…
Until I awoke to chainsaws and a bright orange, rusted tractor—they were tearing down my forest, my escape! The home of many birds, squirrels, raccoons, opossums, and cottontail rabbits. My heart ached.What would happen to them now? What would I ever do without the animals?