A random errand takes me
past a
rogue
field
alight in Mustard Flowers.

This boon of Flowers
is rare October fuel,
a wonderland of pollen.
I hope
the bees have found this flood of yellow
too.

Into the blossoms I go
listening across the wind
for the telltale hum.
There.
I hear them.
My tribe.

A less certain beeline,
has brought me this gift;
to find
my sisters in the bliss of an equal joy.

Returning home,
I sit by the hives,
observe the traffic,
and watch each bee depart,
setting a course
through notched hills.
Their trajectories tells me they head for the Mustard.
My heart sings as each bee lifts off
in confident departure.

My teachers.

They live
not for self or even queen but for
this sure flight,
this buzzing oneness.