It is a grey day made for staying abed but we must nevertheless be up and about. In the herb bed a half dozen bees are setting us an example as they industriously buzz among the sparse basil flowers, investigating each remaining bloom for any nectar or pollen. Their busy, mood-lifting hum makes one smile and even laugh as the weight of a bee crawling into a nearly spent blossom causes it to suddenly drop to the ground, taking bee with it. She at once crawls out of the petals and takes to the air again to find a sturdier bloom.

And then there is this old girl, barely moving except to breathe and wave antennae, awkwardly clinging to a plant. Her age is apparent in the ragged edges of her wings, beaten to tatters from mile after mile flown in service to the colony. This is how foragers end. They simply wear out. Perhaps this is where she stops, holding fast until, lifeless, she is dislodged by wind and gravity. Or perhaps she is just awaiting a stray bit of sun to warm her for one more trip home. Either way the day seems grey again.