i heart bees

I realize I need to witness some passings. The egg bound hen did eventually die, as did Alex White, the white chick, which was too white for her own good. The little Cooper's hawk had no problem picking her out from her brown surroundings and coop mate. Swingy Shark John is growing well. We're not yet sure if it's a hen or a rooster.

Curtis installed a new beehive a couple weeks ago with a class. We had decided not to use antibiotic treatments for the American Foul Brood, but rather use good sanitation and make splits from hives that survive in our colony to select for more resistant bees. The new hive made a this heart-shaped comb around the queen cage after she found her way out, I'd like to think in approval of our decision. This bit of comb, built in less than two weeks, is already speckled with pollen and nectar as the bees are taking advantage of a good flow from the tulip poplars.

Now we are one less tulip poplar in the garden from winter storms and just lost our hickory in Monday's winds. It fell away from the house, fortunately, but squarely on one of the art installations for tomorrow's earth day event. The elm that came down at the Decatur High School garden also fell on an art installation. The installations were designed to be temporary from the beginning, but I don't think anyone was planning for that short of a time. These were like cooperative mandalas with the earth--instead of the people building and deconstructing the art, the people built and the earth deconstructed.

The hickory that fell in the garden had a little fairy hole at the bottom that children were constantly leaving offerings of berries and small stones, like a shrine. It was protected by a sprig of poison ivy. I never put it together that the little arched hole indicated a compromised structure. I don't know if knowing would have made a difference, though.

In the trees that are still standing, I've noticed so many more little green inchworms dangling from the trees this year than ever before. My car is covered in frass. That's biologist-speak for caterpillar poo. Little dark specks. And yet the trees are still covered in leaves, with a few holes, but definitely more leaf than hole. Perhaps these luminous ornaments are the trees' collective contribution to the art show.

Death and life is a constant theme of the garden--not a big drama, but a matter-of-fact balancing of accounts. It is not all or nothing. The caterpillars eat and the trees survive and the birds feast. Some trees fall and space opens up for new growth. The chickens die and the hawks eat. Weeds get pulled and vegetables thrive. As we move into the busy gardening season, I try to remember to pause and give thanks to both life and death, and to pay attention to the garden's gestures.