He flew out of the forest towards the lake, his tattered honeybee wings barely keeping him up. When he sensed his weakness, he passed up the fall flowers in the garden, and tried for the richly scented bull clover along the shoreline.

      And he'd almost reached it when a puff of wind took him out over the lake.  As he looked down, he spied his hivemates for the last time as they scurried around the purple blossoms he'd caressed all summer.  Then the wind gust died, and he spiralled downwards to splash softly into the water.  Helpless, he traced desperate circles on the glassy surface, not understanding that his once powerful wings were now exhausted and useless.

      The water swirled, and the rock bass that had been watching pulled him beneath the surface.  All that was left were a few silent ripples and the shadow of the fish retreating to his lair.

      The honeybee's hive mates hadn't even seen him pass on his last flight; they were too busy filling their quotas of nectar.  And as they flew back to the mother hive, some of them struggling on tattered wings, none would mourn his passing, or even notice his absence.