I am sauntering around on the porch of my mother’s house as though it was a vast greenhouse. But it is only a porch. I am admiring the greenery both inside and out when my mother comes out of the house and onto the porch with me. Immediately, she says:

“You like that? They go into and through, the birds. You know? Into-ing and through-ing?”

She is sweeping something off of the table out here. I now notice that there are dead bees everywhere. Many of them are wrapped in what appears to be thick spider webs, but some of them are simply lying still on their backs. Aside from the bees and the spider webs, the porch does not seem messy or unkempt. My mother goes on sweeping up the bees, but I have a strong urge now to leave the porch. I realize that I am barefoot and I fear accidentally stepping upon a dead bee. I am near the threshold, but I have no idea if it’s actually safer inside.