~ Bee ~
Sun on my fur, at last. Paddle my feet against the boy’s palm, probe him with my antennae, learn his smell. With the sun warming me, the last of the winter sleep slips away. I’m alive. Wing-muscles shiver to life. I ignite them, trying to warm myself. The air around me vibrates. Still weak, though. I need food. Need to fly. To nest. To lay.
But his palm is comforting. I trundle across it, tongue flicking, hunting for food. He tastes of salt. I recoil.
“Don’t worry, bee,” he says. “I’ll feed you.”
He says it with his voice, which I don’t understand. It’s a rumble that sets the air a-quiver. I remember this from the memories of my long-dead sisters. Humans are chaos. Even the way they talk disturbs everything.
But then he says it a different way, one I understand. Not sure if he
