Hive

Number of times use of teeming
is justified. Innumerable. Exact moment
the queen stops laying. Undetectable.
Sudden drop in temperatures.
Bibb lettuce bolting to asterisks.
Beets forced from their soft beds.

Message to the hive: There's still time.
Out goes the forager, out rolls the proboscis
gorging on nectar before zipping home
to waggle for a waiting receiver.
Message to the hive: conserve.

Execution. In this case, both
the follow through and the eviction.
Workers drag the drones
from their comfy digs,
kick them to the comb's curb
to save food. Nurses cap cells.
It's a wonder the hive can
function at all what with all
its insistence on arriving.
On departures.

Last brood of the season emerges
to serve as the winter bees,
building out from the queen
a cluster kept at a constant
93 degrees. Less and less
pull through to longer days.
Depleted hum on the fringe
of the world's fields and orchards.
Incontrovertible.
Message to the hive: survive.

*************

We're still deciding whether or not we're going to keep bees in Cole. When I bring it up to people, friends, I am always asked a version of the same question: Are you going to ask your neighbors if they mind? To which I often say no, but then wonder if I should. It seems the neighborly thing to do, right? Then I think of the ear-spitting yappers that are fenced in at the end of the block, how their piercing barks-if one can call that sound a bark, as it's more like the sound of an animal being slowly tortured-interrupt my morning routine with the paper and coffee, making what would otherwise be a relatively peaceful morning, well, not. So peaceful.

Did anyone knock on my door and ask if they could get two more dogs who would bark incessantly day and night? I don't think so. Now, I understand, this is not a sound analogy. Bees sting, and some people have allergies. One of my neighbors, in fact, is petrified of bees to the point of it being a phobia. Far be it for me to induce greater fear just because I want to do my part to save the ecosystem.

Because, when it comes right down to it, most people have no clue what a critical role bees play in making the world a more beautiful-and appetizing-place. Sure, folks get the idea of pollination, but for the most part, bees are seen as a nuisance. Out comes the can of bee, wasp and hornet killer. I'm amazed at how few people understand the differences between these three types of bees, let alone all the variations of honeybees that exist. Honeybees are, by nature, very docile. They don't want to sting you. They want you to move out of the way so they can do their work quickly and efficiently. Hornets don't make honey, but even if they did, no one would keep them because they're just plain mean. And wasps will sting you over and over in a frenzy, making you pay dearly for happening upon one of their clay tube-like nests. Growing up in Ohio, we dealt with far too many yellow jackets, wasps and hornets, and I got stung plenty, but never, ever by a honeybee.

Right now, all over the country, honeybees are readying for winter. The problem is that their numbers are dwindling, and no one can figure out why. The overall increase in pesticide use? Antibiotics administered to the hive? Various mites or molds? Global warming? Air pollution? How about the insane supply-and-demand that's cropped up around the latest superfood craze, almonds? Almonds are now California's largest cash crop, and the demand just keeps increasing. To have almonds, you need bees. Hundreds of acres of almond trees stretch for miles throughout California, but there aren't enough bees in the entire state to pollinate half of them. Whereas beekeepers used to make a good living off of selling honey and other hive byproducts, like royal jelly (extremely expensive and difficult to process) or bee pollen (ditto), now they can't even come close to that...they can barely break even. Colony collapse disorder (CCD) has ensured that. The only way to make money with bees today is by renting out the hives. And wouldn't you know it, every spring, early, keepers load up their hives in Florida and Wisconsin and Oklahoma-most states in the lower 48-and truck them to the California almond groves.

Bees aren't fond of travel. It stresses the hive. But it's not like they have any choice. They are more commodity than necessity, and that's created a problem. At the center of it all is this indisputable fact: The disappearance of the honeybee will affect every single person on this earth. Most of them just don't know it yet, or don't care.

So I'm trying to decide if I, on the edge of the urban farming revolution, should keep bees because, well, the bees need all the help they can get. Urban beekeepers have become critical in repopulating ev'r-dwindling numbers of bees. If we can keep just one hive, and keep it healthy by using natural means, then we're ahead of the rural beekeeping industry, which is losing thousands of hives a year to CCD.

And if I don't tell my neighbors, will they be any the wiser? Honeybees aren't going to take up home in anyone's attic, after all. They'll follow their queen, no matter what. Home is where the hive is, not where there's an empty corner to fill.

(Interested in reading more about what's happening to the world's honeybee population? Check out Fruitless Fall by Rowan Jacobsen. Excellent book--engaging, fascinating and a quick read. Plus it's finally out in paperback!)