Zipped into the white cotton armor of the trade, she took a breath of anticipation, pried the cover from the beehive and slowly, slowly set it aside. The bees, anxious of the disruption in their home, issued forth from the frames of wax and honey, then retreated under the pillow of smoke that followed.
She proceeded checking the frames for signs of good health, observing the gathering masses of fuzz and wings, each individual insect simultaneously independent and integral. As she sprinkled the antibiotics around the edge of the hive, she saw their common plight. The illness itself was not the problem, but only the symptom of a darkness, a deep-seated yearning of an injured soul, trying with all its might to externalize the wound. The illness was not the end but the beginning, a call for help and attention, a call to arms in a war against the pain and bliss of the modern world.
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