The Bee

The bee crashed into the puddle.
Fuzz and purpose melted down with the thick goo
of surface tension.
I'm afraid at first--for myself--but I
realize fear is a reaction. Not a thought.
    (At least, I think it's not a thought.)
I placed my hand under the bee and
scooped it onto the ground. I use the water
on my hands to absorb the pools around the bee,
blowing on it and drying it.
It rests, and eventually flies away.
I feel glad, and proud.