The sunshine beat back from the high old walls, bees droned among the bright masses of flowers.

A bee, as plump and slow-moving as a horsefly in October, droned past her head.

The bees droned in the sunshine, hovering near the lengths of wood I had just finished cutting.

The bees droned by, there was a whisper among the unruffled leaves.

A fat bee droned around the opening, then seemed to decide there was nothing for him in there and meandered down to the garden instead.

Of course the bees were still droning in the overgrown flower beds.

A bee, flying back toward its hive, droned into the thin mass of dust.

Here and there, bees droned homeward to hive or burrow.

As a thousand bees had droned and burrowed in the pears that lay on the ground.

The day wore on, warm, sunny and still; bees droned lazily from flower to flower.