The Hive

The Hive

The hive sits in the hollow of a baobab, on a slope above a lake so vast its far shore dissolves into haze.

The entrance is narrow, edged with propolis black as dried blood. The bees squeeze through one by one. They do not linger. They do not look back.

I have watched this hive for forty seasons. The honey has thinned. The hum has lowered. The workers have grown small. The basement has grown full.

I asked myself: What happened to the hive that promised to be different?

The disease that makes them believe they are wasps.

The hive awaits.