The coming northern front sweeps away the warmer air back to the south. Its chill wind leavens the tree tops to dance in its wake. Above the rustle of motile leaves a solitary magpie cackles its hoary song. Yet the bumble bee queen carries on working, for she cares not for his boasting, vulgar song about how he steals from the works of others. For soon she shall raise an army fit for the summer.