I couldn't help but enjoy the lingered feeling of warmth that was a buzz in my chest like the delicate and dangerous beat of bee wings. So revered these winged workers, giving the most elegant of treats, yet, if touched one might find their flesh swollen and pained from assault. This feeling was one of just watching them work. Flow around the hive that might give just a hint of golden droplet when its overfilled and prime for dipping.
This feeling was one of two bees, the women from my dream the flutter of children, I walk to the wagon I was cleaning to run my fingers over the oiled surface of the shell. I buffed it at its prop at the back of the wagon. I like to sit in the wagon while we moved and just watch the stories from the shadows against the sides and upper canvas. It was so very cold out, even the vines seemed to shiver, and evening bloom smell of its honeysuckle aroma mixed with frost.
Funny thing about cold, how violently it can take a life, yet, even in its most simplest of forms, it will allow one to live in the most lacking of times. Stepping out to the platform I breath in the cup of my hands. I feel the moist of my warm breath and the cool steam of air melt and moisten my palms. Perhaps it wasn't enough to drink fully but the water was there. Like a single drop of a snow flake against my tongue. I hear the sound of laughter again buzz its echo around me. Girls in boots running in the light fall of snow. Their mother laughing as she watched.
When things seemed so peaceful is when I saw the fire shoot up across the top of a wagon. One not of red, orange or yellow. One of blue, white, and purple. Its burn wouldn't be slow and popping, it was pure stone frozen in its fury.
I tried to call for help, it was going turn all the wagons to stone! We needed water, water from our fingers, warm from our touch to stop it, I knew we did! It would be a banging sound, not one of a drum but still throbbing, did I finally awake, my cheek against the shell, tears down my face, and watching Shadow walk in, asking me if I was okay.
He heard me scream.
This feeling was one of two bees, the women from my dream the flutter of children, I walk to the wagon I was cleaning to run my fingers over the oiled surface of the shell. I buffed it at its prop at the back of the wagon. I like to sit in the wagon while we moved and just watch the stories from the shadows against the sides and upper canvas. It was so very cold out, even the vines seemed to shiver, and evening bloom smell of its honeysuckle aroma mixed with frost.
Funny thing about cold, how violently it can take a life, yet, even in its most simplest of forms, it will allow one to live in the most lacking of times. Stepping out to the platform I breath in the cup of my hands. I feel the moist of my warm breath and the cool steam of air melt and moisten my palms. Perhaps it wasn't enough to drink fully but the water was there. Like a single drop of a snow flake against my tongue. I hear the sound of laughter again buzz its echo around me. Girls in boots running in the light fall of snow. Their mother laughing as she watched.
When things seemed so peaceful is when I saw the fire shoot up across the top of a wagon. One not of red, orange or yellow. One of blue, white, and purple. Its burn wouldn't be slow and popping, it was pure stone frozen in its fury.
I tried to call for help, it was going turn all the wagons to stone! We needed water, water from our fingers, warm from our touch to stop it, I knew we did! It would be a banging sound, not one of a drum but still throbbing, did I finally awake, my cheek against the shell, tears down my face, and watching Shadow walk in, asking me if I was okay.
He heard me scream.
