格倫·沃森/Glen Wasson
One afternoon a few summers ago, I had been clearing brush in the mountains for several hours and decided to reward myself with lunch. Sitting on a log, I unwrapped a sandwich and surveyed the rugged scenery. Two turbulent streams joined to form a clear, deep pool before roaring down a heavily wooded canyon.
My idyll would have been perfect had it not been for a persistent bee that began buzzing around me. The bee was of the common variety that plagues picnickers. Without thinking, I brushed it away.
Not the least intimidated, the bee came back and buzzed me again. Now, losing patience, I swatted the pest to the ground and crunched it into the sand with my boot.
Moments later I was startled by a minor explosion of sand at my feet. My tormentor emerged with its wings buzzing furiously. This time I took no chance. I stood up and ground the insect into the sand with all my 210 pounds.
Once more I sat down to my lunch. After several minutes I became aware of a slight movement near my feet. A broken but still living bee was feebly emerging from the sand.
Beguiled by its survival, I leaned down to survey the damage. The right wing was relatively intact, but the left was crumpled like a piece of paper. Nevertheless, the bee kept exercising the wings slowly up and down, as though assessing the damage. It also began to groom its sand-encrusted thorax and abdomen.
Next the bee turned its attention to the bent left wing, rapidly smoothing the wing by running its legs down the length. After each straightening session, the bee buzzed its wings as if to test the lift. This hopeless cripple thought it could still fly!
I got down on my hands and knees to better see these futile attempts. Closer scrutiny confirmed the bee was finished-it must be finished. As a veteran pilot, I knew a good deal about wings.
But the bee paid no attention to my superior wisdom. It seemed to be gaining strength and increasing the tempo of its repairs. The bent veins that stiffened the gossamer wing were nearly straight now.