My French movie

I stepped out onto the terrace last weekend and noticed two bees engaging in some coital flitting-about. Initially I thought it was the case that only male bees leave their hive but I looked it up later and learned that I was wrong about that. Not that what I saw couldn’t have been two boy bees or two girl bees, but my guess is that this was what we might term a traditional bee coupling.

I went back indoors for my camera, hoping the tryst would last long enough for me to capture footage, and the bees did not disappoint. They wrestled on the terrace, they danced in the air, they somersaulted across the lounge chair. They separated and reunited several times, oblivious to the human observer chronicling their passion. Their energy and endurance impressed.

It became clear after a pause that one bee intended to continue the romantic romp, to pollinate again and possibly again. The other bee, though, intended no such thing, and she – one assumes it was the “she” – demonstrated clearly and forcefully that she was, as they say, done.

Later, on the terrace, I was dismayed to see one of the bees who, only an hour before, had been consumed by bee love now on his back – one assumes it was the “he” – motionless except for the legato pleading of his six little legs. The legs that aided in his recent energetic embracement now served only as a reminder of life’s finality. What, after all, is there, really, beyond amour, saint amour?