The band

Tiny bees that don't bite or sting, like the mocking bird they only sing
In tiny tubes of wax, protected they relax, playing on musical wing
Inside their hum, off walls a resounding drum, nature's melody
marching band flying scrum as out they come, silent symphony

As they gather in a flying lather, they beckon suns rays to paint spring
so tiny a soul who's only goal is honey, made of silent songs, for all to bring
A cloud they spin without a din, moving periods in a sentence unsaid
Moving off in space, a vanishing face, messages of nature unread