Everyone’s cranky. The bees
are cross though they don’t know the president,
though they take a dim view
of outsiders to their hives, though they guard
sweet wealth with their tiny
gallant lives. They vibrate
in the hive entrances, cooling,
cooling with their whirring wings.
Human news buzzes with fresh rumor
of wickedness and war, betrayals
of decency or loyalty, stinging
vituperation, cries of pain
disdained or shared. Things
are getting hotter, and it seems
no core of sweetness can be left.