A gentle buzz mystifies me, as I stand holding the end of the gate that closes the driveway to keep our Aussie in the yard. My feet press into a patch of white clover, generously in bloom. I scan the leaves for the sometimes-found four-leaved clover, then register continual movement. I let my vision go unfocused, and see a hundred bees of various kinds moving from blossom to blossom, unaware of my Birks beside them, as they continue their work. I can’t identify all those different kinds of bees. I don’t see a “traditional” honey bee amongst them, so I call them all “bumble bees” of different sizes. I see none of the aggressive bees we also have out here–yellow jackets, hornets and wasps–only the peaceful pollinators I welcome, more of the unpaid help, who keep my garden producing. Eventually my husband’s car moves up the driveway and I close the gate behind him, with one more wave to my mournful Aussie who realizes this time she will await us at home, and leaving my wild bees to their work, nurturing my yard and garden.