I explain I’m not a local.
I must have that put-together look—
a roadside talking map to articulate
the way from this B&B to wine country.
It’s the first right, second left, right at the fourth
stop, left again, go two miles, take the dirt
road you can barely see. I don’t offer
and they don’t ask the names of roads.
The signs are too hard to see, even if
I could remember them. I offer compass
directions, but their eyes gloss over, and then
landmarks: the red barn, big white house,
a gnarled oak (you can’t miss it), and they nod.
Then I remember the honeybees, their seed-
sized brains. How they cooperate, share
the way to flowers. They return with loaded
legs, take their place in a special honeycomb
space where they perform for a captive audience
waiting for directions.
I tell my new friends imagine you are bees.
The nectar stash is thirty degrees from the sun.
I position myself accordingly, like a worker bee
on a hive’s navigation platform. I start my dance;
begin turning and turning. It works again.
As I get dizzy from spinning and the earlier
wine tasting, they’re gone. I wait, hope they
remember this hive; bring a bottle of nectar
after they fill up at the foraging grounds.
