I positioned my pointer finger so the half-drowned honey bee in the bird bath could climb astride the nail
and be lifted into summer sun, where she might more quickly warm and dry herself with shivers.
Three times she tried to fly, rising an inch, only to come down stumbling on the back of my hand.
The fourth time she rose to the level of my eyes and hovered there, then landed on my nose for a breather.
A dark ticklish dot that crossed my eyes, she kissed with her honeyed proboscis my noble schnozz in thanks,
or affection, possibly even love. Then she rose and hovered there, at what looked to be approximately the distance between
the famous Sistine fingertips, a space signifying the gap between us—God in Her glory and a just-awakened man.