I sit on porch steps scoured by last night's rain
next to the holy basil in its terra cotta pot
with tall, fuzzy stalks sent up from the base
and tiny pink flowers clustered at each tip.

As I sip my tea and try to release the noise
of this world, a bumblebee zooms past
my head, balancing on the filament of a single
blossom to gather pollen from the anther.

I am maybe a foot away, and can hear
the even engine of her flight each time she lands
and takes off again, with no way of knowing
my state has just named her endangered.

I'm so close, I could reach out and touch
the bright orange pollen sacs on the backs
of her legs, but I don't. I watch, grateful
she's still doing the work she was made for.