Drunken bees in a land of milk and honey.

Out at first light to open the gates on the drive. The kitchen fitters are expected. With a whoop of excitement Bob and Sophie race out of the front door to check that no cats have settled in the wood pile. They disappear over the brow of the hill. The last I see of them the tips of two tails waving twenty to the dozen. 

From the cherry orchard a throbbing noise. The sound of a early rising farmers tractor echoing up the valley ? The throbbing becomes louder. There, beyond the picket fence, the cherry blossom covered in bees. Two, perhaps three hundred on each tree. Snouts in the pollen, fat rumps waving happily from side to side in the early sun. There must be thousands of them - warm and content and singing - immersed in purpose. Drunken bees in a land of milk and honey. 

Sometimes even an old cynic has to join the PONs in wondering - Can it get any better ?