August morning, the season for sprinklers. The soft szz szz szz szz sound they make as the spin is soothing. It’s comforting working in the garden and listening to the sprinklers in the background.

Morning dew reveals the spider webs in the lawn. They appear as thick clouds, shrouding the lawn. I suppose morning time, when the webs are so visible, is not a productive time for the spiders. Any creature is sure to see their snare and stay clear. If I were a spider, I’d sleep in until the sun dried my web, and I felt a juicy bug wriggle my web.

The dead bee I found on the daisy is still lying in state. Nothing has disturbed it during the night. How many others passed during the night to mourn her passing? How long will she wait in state until a breeze takes her to her grave, or raindrops wash her body away? She may slip quietly onto the ground, covered by dust by summer’s end, each year a little more dust collecting on top of her, until millions of years pass, and one day a paleontologist uncovers her fossilized body. Maybe I should wrap her body in parchment, write a note for that paleontologist, letting them know she died on a daisy in August. That certainly would shock the paleontologist, to uncover a fossil with a note.

The pond in August makes the perfect dining room. The conversation turns to what the ducks on the other side of the pond are doing. Needing to wear long sleeved shirts in August is a luxury. We’ve yet to reach 80º this summer on Bow Hill. There are no 80º days in the forecast so maybe this summer we won’t get that warm. Then again there is still all of August to go.

Things are always different when you look closely at them. From a distance, this cluster of daisies look serene.

Yet one of the daisies is the final resting place for this bee. It’s short life is over. When a worker bee dies far from the hive, is it even missed? I’m sure no search party is sent out to look for it. The buzz at the hive goes on.

Nearby, two other worker bees are working into the evening, gathering pollen and nectar to take bake to their hive. Maybe they’ll tell the others at the hive that worker 721893 won’t be coming home.

It’s bedtime for the chicks. They are big enough now that they don’t need the warmth of their mother. They couldn’t possibly fit underneath her anyway. Soon they’ll be roosting and on their own.