In my father-in-law’s back yard a sprawling crabapple tree blossomed through the recent snows. It is of a white-flower variety, and when the breezes settle down the smell is powerful – nostalgic and intoxicating all at once.
Today, while I was watching my daughter play with plastic ducks in the birdbath, my father-in-law called from across the yard, “Come check this out.”
We stood in a natural dome where the branches of the crabapple tree are around seven feet from the ground, but droop to around five feet at their ends, creating an illusion of containment in all the trappings of springtime.
“Listen,” he says.
It’s subtle at first, but as my thoughts fade away I hear a quiet chorus of droning insects. I study the blossoms closer and find that I am standing under a veritable swarm of honeybees.