The story of the bees was told in honeycomb, in both the dance that built its walls and the flowing fragrant ink.
The honeycomb held a richness of nutrients for the bees, not simply sugar, yet with antibiotic properties it was their medicine too.
The honeycomb in the sunlight, to the proportion of the bee who built it with his kin, was a marvel of engineering. To my eye it was a sweet tower of food, the harvest of the wildflowers, to see them through the colder months in style.
The honeycomb was a golden story of what steady determination to a relatively simple goal can achieve. It was a story of consistency and cooperation. It was a story of how nature gives and receives at the same time in her balanced way.
The honeycomb was pockets of sweet bee-dreams, each one a story of wildflowers and summer days.
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