Carol Harbo
There is a peaceful glen in the bayou where I witness a talented lady. She isn’t apparent as I approach her realm. She doesn’t scold or warn or such. Her backdrop is dappled green and soothing; her stage lights, aslant and irregular. She’s the tufted titmouse who frequents the yard each year when blood-orange iris bloom in the mucky edges of the bayou.
Few of us visit a glen like this; few are drawn to a yard of honey bee hives. But that’s where I work on infrequent occasions. This welcoming Spring morning with its light, cool breeze is one of those days.
Others have recently visited the bee yard. Each has left his sign: deer tracks, fresh armadillo holes, skunk tracks along with a residual odor. An experienced skunk was here last night. Shuffle marks on the ground in front of hives say many guard bees met their maker by an accurate swat of the skunk’s front paws when they instinctively protected their home. And his uneaten kills lie in front of undisturbed hives.
Suddenly the big-eyed titmouse also notes the skunk’s invasion. It’ll prove a fortuitous one for her. I catch only a gray shadow flitting past my veil as she lands on a hive lid, peers over the edge and plunges to the ground. She expertly grabs a bee and takes flight. She executes this landing, diving, takeoff,—landing, diving, takeoff—over and over. On each trip a honey bee is served to her insatiable hatchlings.
