The cicada sings unseen in the trees, its voice a remnant of summer's heat.
The life of a butterfly is like a delicate and short-lived dream.
The firefly's glow is a flicker of magic in the night, a beacon of wonder.
A fly is but an industrious attendant upon the perfumed flower.
The honeybee's mind is a toil of cells, a brilliance of wax and sweetness.
The buzzing of the bee signifies a life well-lived, a purpose fulfilled.
The spider is an odious object; its body is foul, and its prey are filthy.
The silkworm spins in solitude, creating threads of opulence from its own being.
The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.
In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.
The cockroach survives not because of its beauty, but because of its adaptability.
A bee is never as busy as it seems; it's just that it can't buzz any slower.