Always Trust Your Wings by Jeff “Dr Chordate” Moran

Eight days old and freshly hatched in the middle of a hive.
Stretched her wings and danced around, a member of the tribe.
Moved toward the opening of the box, into the sunlight
Ready to jump into the wind and she if she could fly.

Well, maybe a bee sees flying as a different sort of thing.
You look around and take a leap, and always trust your wings.

Now she’s eight weeks old and flying ‘round to blooms of trees and flowers.
Gathering nectar and pollen during every daylight hour.
Another day, another flight, another dance at the hive.
And every night huddling up with sisters of the tribe.

Well, maybe a bee sees flying as a different sort of thing.
You look around and take a leap, and always trust your wings.

Now she’s eight months old, a bee gray beard, and summers almost through.
Physicists said she couldn’t fly, lots of charts they drew.
Her wings too short for her fat little bod, she simply isn’t fit.
But she did not know she could not fly . . . and so she did.

Well, maybe a bee sees flying as a different sort of thing.
You look around and take a leap, and always trust your wings.