Another abstract one. I think I was in a contemplative mood when I wrote this.
Work
Productivity shouldn't be measured in deaths, or lives, or even births.
It is, though, in her line of work, beginning, middle, end, and sometimes it shouldn't be. Sometimes it should just matter about the end.
She wishes she could live in that moment, that ending with proud new parents, with a job well done, forever.
And then the hive buzzes, and the work continues, bees coming and going, and she can't stop them for just one person.
Reference: this isn't a very good one. The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Mon Kidd is not about bees (much) it's about racism and acceptance and parental love. Well, maybe in that case, it is a bit coherent.