Once upon a time, the birds didn't get on so well with the bees, and their bladed beaks sliced through sky blues in fear of their fur-bottomed foes. This is not to say that The War was one sided but rather it--like any war worth its weight in salt--had rolled across so many sunfalls that the grandfathers of both flighty creatures could not recall its birth. How many apples had toppled to the turf below the big tree's branches? How many cubbies once filled with sweet, gooey nectar had cracked in the snow and rotted away?
Some whispered to their wee ones in the waning of the night that bees and birds had been bitter enemies since the Big Darkness before the first moon. When the stars all popped like balloons and shot out each living thing, the birds and the bees splintered from the same sparkle in the sky--both with powerful wings and sharp weapons to protect them and both, ever so fatally, brutally in love with the flowers. Cuckoos and swallows, bumbles and honey-hoggers, pussy willows and peonies, all sucking and fucking the life and color out of one another, fierce and violent with friction and jealousy. The bees darted from petal to petal, penetrating the flower insides to suck up the sugar and deposit the juices into the willing mouth of her neighbor. The birds would lick and feast on the sweetness, collecting the nectar from mouth to blood stream, flitting away before a honeybee could see or prick it with its awful sting. There were generations of bees who cultivated militias strong enough to prick and poke birds into near extinction; and yet, a generation later would rise stronger birds, stealthy and more bold, spooking off the tiny aggressors with their grotesque stature.
Now, the birds could not eat the bees, but nip at them furiously or deplete the bodies of their lovers: daisy, milkweed, poppy, and the like. The same was true for the bees, who could sting and sting with their posterior swords, but were no match in size for several fowl. The flowers, however, flourished at what would appear to be their own demise: the lashing out of their shared lovers spreading them all across the hillside, like the pieces of prom dresses strewn across a ballroom. The more the bits of their blushing bodies were scattered, the more they grew. Soon, the greens of the grasses were lit with the soft fire of a thousand pinks and reds and yellows.
And while the Big Light smiled upon his growing collection of rouge gems rolling from knoll to knoll, he feared that bloodlust could not beget true beauty; and, thusly, the love affair amongst the three protagonists could not stand if it were waged in warfare for which a winner was sought. He decided that he would decide who the winner was: a dissertation of dominance, a polyamorous requiem from the mouth of the soloist watcher. So, one evening, as he sunk down below the trees, Big Light hatched a plan: I will wrap myself in a robe to dampen my glow, and crawl back up in the darkness so as to be the moon.
As the birds and bees winged to their trees, Big Light rose in his cloak, seeing the night sky for his first time. Feigning to be his darker brother, he stuck his white fingers through the tree leaves, peering on what each critter practiced when they thought they were in secret. The birds bundled the tiny mouths of their young up, dropping crystals of sugar into their mouths, and keeping ovules of eggs snug underwing to birth new mouths for more sugar from more flowers. But the bees, in a humble twist, delicately deposited seed from one flower to another, spreading them without dissecting them and then dribbled the remains into a network of honeycombs soon to be filled with rich, amberous nutrients.
Impressed with the ingenuity of the latter contender, Big Light turned his rays to the birds nests and removed his costume, revealing his flood of mean luster: "Feathered friends, I have found you wanting of the humility of the bees and their deep love for the jewels I have scattered on my floor. Your mastery of the air has shown great brawn, but your arrogance grounds you. You take to feed your own kind and give nothing to your brothers in return." At this, as the first light of morning pummeled to the dirt, the basest creatures of ooze began to poke their heads into the day. "You will no longer be so suave as to slurp the sweetness of the flower and skip away unscathed, but will wake each morning at my watch and fight for food in the depths of the dirt."
"But the hammer must strike twice," the Big Light bellowed, as he moved his beam from the mud back to the branch where the beehive shook. "Thus for you, dear bees, while you will maintain your agility and romance with the flowers, your victory will come at a cost: the black switch upon your back will inflict a painful mark no enemy is soon to forget, but the price you pay for your legacy will be your life. If you choose to turn against the benevolence I have shown you to inflict violence on another, choose wisely, as that stinging dagger will remove itself from you and you will come toppling down to the earth--just as I have sentenced the birds to for every meal for the rest of their days."
The topsoil shivered with the squirming bodies of worms and other wrigglers, burying themselves to evade their own deaths. Each morning, the birds would feather from the treetops to peck at a little, bloody breakfast. Each afternoon, hundred of tiny daggers pricked into critters while the fuzzy bodies of bees bowled to the ground to lay blankly. Each night, the flowers curled up their dress hems and knew nothing of it all, a rippling sea of sex and desire below a big, lonely, ball in the sky.