Love this poem from Writer's Almanac a few days ago.
The February Bee
The bumblebee crept out on the stone steps.
No roses. Nothing to
Nothing but itself, the cold air,
and the spring light.
rubbed its legs together
as if it wished to start a fire
and wear its
Under its smart yellow bands
the black body shone like patent
It groomed itself, like a pilot
ready for takeoff and yet not
when my shadow fell over him
he flicked his wings, checking
and took off into the bare garden.
"The February Bee" by Nancy Willard, from The Sea At
Truro. © Knopf, 2012. Reprinted with permission.
Watch the roof trusses being delivered!