Flowers and Bees     The flowers exploded in bunches of threes, fours, sevens - segregated by color, type, shape. Reds, yellows, rich deep purples and delicate whites. Colors yet unnamed. A mad, lonely artist mixing his paints, spreading them thickly upon the canvas of earth. The color of magic.     With the flowers came the bees. Noble, busy creatures, the picture of efficiency and speed. Storming into the field with pollen-lust, returning to the hive fat and content. Their small bodies shone with an aura of things good and right.     Quick, silent feet, rushing through the grass, in pairs of two.     The girls polished the air with their laughter. Their white gowns swishing through the tall grass, traveling from flower to flower, in perfect unison with the bees. A natural harmony to things. Auras bright with tones of yellow and white.     Nature tugs at these harmonies, masterfully arranging the notes and brushstrokes, constantly achieving the state of being perfectly right, keeping it in balance. Its children are swept up in the flow of this natural harmony, and in turn seek out the elements of life that radiate with this energy.     The girls knew little of energy, nor did they care.     Where did they come from? How old were they? Was this the present day? A long distant past? A dreamscape, a flash of imagery from the astral plane? The environment offered little evidence to support any speculation. They ran, collecting the flowers, rolling them into small puffs of color. Their laughter echoed off the clouds. The bees continued on their small, noble quest underfoot. The shepherds of life and they don't even know it.     The smile of the shortest girl reflected the sun, an explosion of light.     With a great, dramatic flair, they collapsed in the grass, rolled around, flattening it with their weight. With a sigh they were on their backs, staring skyward. Cloud shadows floated over their skin.     They spoke in a language unrecognizable. Was it of this planet? It must be. Yet their sounds offered no suggestion to any known alphabet. What did they speak of? They giggled as they sang their sweet, unknowable words. Did they talk of the flowers they had collected? The men they would marry? Did they sing of adventures, storybook worlds, where silver mercury knights charged upon ivory steeds, thrusting great pikes into the hearts of creatures foul? Or was that already their world, all too familiar to their young hearts? Did they sing about a world of lost dreamers, a planet populated by the heartbroken and the shy? What a silly notion. To dream is to be human, the girls said. A place where the songs are unheard, where poetry is a sin. It was laughable. And so they laughed. END Back