This Persistent Song

In the honeyed noon of mid-May I'm in the garden, and I hear what I think is singing very close to me, and I listen for the source. I check to see if I've left the music on my iPhone playing at a low level, it's that close.

Music abounds on the street where I live, but this feels intimate, private.

Pale petals flutter onto me from the pink climbing rose that arches above me, and I raise my eyes to it and the source of that frail song is suddenly so obvious I'm annoyed with myself for thinking that it came from my phone: bees, dozens of them, intent on every rose blossom.