A bee is an exquisite chemist.
The cicada sings unseen in the trees, its voice a remnant of summer's heat.
A dragonfly can spend up to five years of its life underwater as a nymph before emerging to fly for maybe a month.
The life of a butterfly is like a delicate and short-lived dream.
A grasshopper's leap is a dance of freedom.
The firefly's glow is a flicker of magic in the night, a beacon of wonder.
Butterflies are self-propelled flowers.
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.
Moths are not very beautiful, are they? Yet they can tell us some things about the world that bees cannot.
Ants are more like humans than many humans are.
A bee is never as busy as it seems; it's just that it can't buzz any slower.
The mantis is the harbinger of silence. It is like a stone, poised on the ground, unmoving.