The Awakening, by William Wantling

 I found the bee as it fumbled about the ground
Its leg mangled, its wing torn, its sting gone
I picked it up, marveled at its insistence
to continue on, despite the dumb brute thing that had occurred
I considered, remembered the fatal struggle
the agony on the face of wounded friends and the same dumb drive to continue
I became angry at the unfair conflict suffered
by will and organism
I became just, I became unreasoned, I became
extravagant
I observed the bee, there, lying in my palm I looked and I commanded in a harsh and angry shout – 
STOP THAT! Then it ceased to struggle, and somehow suddenly became marvelously whole, and it a rose and it flew away
I stared, I was appalled, I was overwhelmed
with responsibility, and I knew not where to begin

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