A bee lands on a wrinkle in your jeans

A bee lands on a wrinkle in your jeans.
You eye the bee curiously as it steps its forelegs up and back
like a line dancer.
It hops from your leg to the handle of your backpack,
slumped against your knee.
Its open pockets expose plastic bags of trail mix, dried fruit.
The bee rubs its head against a thread or two,
flies around your head,
then away.

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