The hive’s quiet is louder than the buzz

Just stood at the back of the yard, watching a single bee circle a dead lavender stem like it was solving a riddle. The air was thick with stillness—no drone, no rush. I swear the whole place held its breath. It’s not that they’re quieter. It’s that I’m finally learning to hear what’s been there all along: the pause between wingbeats, the way a queen’s head tilts when she’s bored, the dog who stopped barking just as I did. Sometimes the most important things aren’t said. They’re felt in the shoulders, the silence after a burn, the bus that never comes but feels real.