There is a shortage of bees.

The sheer number of bees in Ron Wallace's poetry is an excuse for me to continue fretting about vanishing hives and a future in which almonds are impossible and there is no one who can imagine such lines as a brisk wind of bees or

"First this: a thousand bees
balled up in one black heart,
a loud wind, a fist of heat..."

Plums, Stones, Kisses & Hooks, Ronald Wallace.