One of my favorite poems is Sylvia Plath’s Black Rook in Rainy Weather. It describes the desperate longing for a transcendent experience—for “some backtalk from the mute sky”—that characterizes the human condition. The speaker is incredulous, resigned to disappointment, but always on alert.

I thought of the poem today after Ryan and I saved a bumblebee from a watery death. We were cooling off in the pool at our apartment complex when the bee, plump as a piece of popcorn, landed in the water and commenced to struggling. Upsetting as this was to witness, neither of us wanted to cup our hands around a large bee.

“Maybe if I push it to the wall, it can climb out,” said Ryan, who promptly sent a tidal wave rolling over the creature. It bounced off the wall and turned on its side, no longer kicking. I screamed and tossed Ryan my flip-flop, which he used to scoop the bee up and out. Teamwork.

We left the upturned sandal and waterlogged bee to dry in the sun. I figured I’d come back later and shake off a tiny winged corpse. But when we rose from our chairs to leave a half hour later, the bee was gone. And truly I tell you: At that very moment, a fat, beautiful bumblebee swooped in my direction and swirled around me as if I were a Disney princess, then dove at Ryan, buzzed him once as if to say, “Thanks buddy, but next time skip the tidal wave,” and disappeared.

It could have been another bee. Our bee could have dragged itself under some bush to take its last buzzing breath.

But do you really think that?