cut blades fly gyroscopically inside the thrumming steel hull. i walk behind half-conscious as my mind begins to mull... a story of a farmer who because he loved his bees, decided to plant his fields with what many consider weeds. the golden clover honey brewed by pollinators' labor brought the farmer a bit of profit with its sweet and delicate flavor. the farmer would often say "when i go it would really please me to meet my maker as i lay among the bees in clover leaves." we hear it said to be unwise to dwell upon these morbid themes. we never know when our eyes will be forever lost to dreams. then it happened one summer morn: his rusted truck bumped around the potholed exit from the highway and suddenly rolled upside down. the crates in the pickup's bed loosed the jars full of nect'r upon the farmer's flailing form as he was flung from the wreck. he lay peacefully upon the grass, covered in the work of bees and smiled wryly as his life fled. his open eyes now would not see: that as he lay in the cloverleaf among the bees, his fields were dower'd. and in those fields the bees drone on collecting pollen from clover flowers.