Visitors in the Blackberry Bushes

Or: When the Bees Chose Me

Tuesday morning, around 11:30, a strange shimmer came down the street. At first, I thought it was just debris, maybe grass clippings from the neighbor’s weedwhacker caught in a breeze. But as the swirl moved with an oddly intentional grace, and the light caught glints of gold and brown in the air, I realized: it wasn’t yard waste. It was alive. It was bees.

A small swarm, maybe the size of a squashed basketball, smaller than you’d expect, larger than you’d ignore, flew with purpose down the road, turned a soft corner into my neighbor’s yard, and then settled themselves right in the blackberry bushes nestled between two burning bushes in my front yard. I watched them from the front window, wide-eyed and entirely enchanted, while my cats took up surveillance positions on the buffet in front of the windows, their tails flicking with excitement.

They landed in a perfect little bundle: tight, pulsing, alive. Shaped more like an anatomical heart than a valentine, warm, full of intention, buzzing with collective breath. And despite the sound and motion, there was no threat. No chaos. Just bees, taking a break. A rest stop on the great journey of finding a new home.

Throughout the afternoon and into the evening, I kept an eye on them, marveling at the intermittent liftoff of scout bees as they darted away in search of real estate. I imagined them returning with tales of hollow trees or soffits, evaluating each with tiny waggle dances. By nightfall, they were still there, huddled together, whispering to each other in wingbeats.

This morning, they stirred with the light. I greeted them before leaving for work, thanked them for choosing my garden as a resting place, and wished them safe travels, just in case they were gone by the time I returned. If they stayed until the next day, I planned to reach out to a local beekeeper to usher them into a hive of their very own.

There’s something deeply affirming about being chosen by a bee swarm. As though the land here, this yard I tend with my own hands, the soil I compost, the flowers I tuck in beside my vegetables, has been recognized as good and safe and true. I must be doing something right.

Postscript:

Sometime between 9:22 and 10:24 on Wednesday morning, while I was at work, the bees departed. One moment, they were there, the top of the swarm visible in the door cam, a pulsing heart of purpose in the blackberry brambles, and then only the curve of leaves remembered their shape. I didn’t see them go. The camera didn’t catch it. And somehow, that feels right, like a blessing that came quietly and left the same. I was surprised by how sad I felt. How attached I’d become in just a day. But I suppose that’s the magic of being chosen, however briefly, by something wild and purposeful. May their new home be safe. May their queen be strong. And may my little patch of earth always be a welcoming rest stop for wanderers with wings.

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A Few Swarm Truths & Sweet Folklore

• Swarming isn’t dangerous. Swarming bees are at their most docile. They’ve gorged on honey for the trip and have no home to defend. They’re focused on finding a new place to live, not picking fights.
• Scout bees are the decision-makers. A handful of bees venture out from the swarm to find suitable homes, then return and perform waggle dances to cast their votes. Consensus through choreography!
• Swarming is a sign of a strong hive. It means their original home was healthy enough to outgrow its space and send out new life.
• In folklore, bees bring blessings. Some traditions say a swarm settling on your land is a sign of good fortune or protection, especially if they choose to stay a night.