We expected to see bison, bear, maybe a moose. Not a bee. We waved at a dozen Buffalo Bill visages in Cody, Wyoming, and cruised into Yellowstone. Crossing the park, the traffic was sparse. The wildlife hid from us. Turning south, our windshield soon framed the Tetons. They were Tetonic.
It wasn’t until the valley of Jackson Hole that we skated through a buffalo herd. Saw our first moose in a Jackson studio.
After a hot tub soak, I jumped into the pool to cool. That’s when I spied them, a sweat bee and a housefly. Ignoring the drowning fly, I cupped the bee. It dried its wings, in no hurry to leave my palm. It crawled onto my index finger and I flicked it into flight. Our bond kept us close, and the bee followed us to lunch. Somehow Cheryl accidentally trapped the bee and it stung her finger. I am surely going to Hell. But was it because of the bee or the fly? Damn, Saint Francis, life is hard.
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