Under the eaves of next door's house, there lives a swarm of bees. Next door aren't around a lot, and it's not a swarm of wasps, so I have decided to leave them bee (ahem) as they are minding their own business at the moment.
About 15 of them are guarding the entrance to the nest; they rotate around each other, sometimes going inside and sometimes not. I'm slightly afraid of them and don't want to anger them. The unruly clematis is going untrimmed below them.
Early this morning before starting work, I went out to read a book in the sunshine. I sat still and didn't flap about, imagining the bees as tiny bulls that would become enraged by any sort of volatile activity.
Round and round they flew, covering all flight paths that might lead to their precious queen.
As I sat reading, I noticed that every so often, one of them would break away from the crew and fly over, measuring the interloper: up, down, from side to side and finally, underneath the bench.
It is not I who observes the bees; they are watching me and making sure that I do not become an enemy.
I am being careful.