Thank you for cooperating.
I crack the lid and lift the inner cover, careful and unhurried. The bees spill into view, bodies moving with that precise, purposeful choreography that never fails to settle my insides.
“Alright, girls,” I whisper. “Let’s see how you’re holding up.”
Frame by frame, I work my way through the brood box.
My eyes know what to look for before my brain names it. Solid brood pattern. Tight arcs of capped brood with clean edges.
Eggs standing straight up where they should be, larvae curled like commas at the bottom of their cells. No peppered gaps. No warning signs.
I spot the queen halfway through, her blue dot easy to track as she moves with confidence across the comb, attendants parting around her. She pauses, abdomen dipping as she lays, then moves on.
“There you are,” I murmur. “Still doing your job.”
I check for mites out of habit, scanning thoraxes and wing joints, tipping the frame to catch the light. Nothing alarming. I tilt the box slightly, feeling the weight of stored honey pull against my wrists.
They’ve eaten some through the stress. But not too much.
I make a mental note to supplement if the flow doesn’t pick back up.
At Hive Two, I adjust the entrance reducer back a notch, opening it slightly now that the immediate threat has passed.
I brush away a smear of dried mud from the bottom board, evidence of the debris flow that tried, and failed, to claim this corner of the yard.
You held.
At the third hive, I linger a little longer. This colony has always been more sensitive, quicker to react to changes. I slide the screened bottom board out and inspect the debris. Wax flakes, pollen crumbs, a few dead mites well within tolerance.
“Still with me,” I say quietly.
I close each hive carefully, pressing frames together so no one gets pinched, replacing lids exactly as I found them. Brick on top turned lengthwise—my own small signal that today’s inspection is done.
By the time I step back, my breathing has slowed, my thoughts untangled just enough to feel manageable.
The bees don’t ask me to decide anything.
They don’t rush me toward clarity or demand answers I don’t have yet. They just require attention, patience, and respect.
You listen. You respond. You don’t force what isn’t ready.
Maybe that’s why this helps.
I peel off my gloves, wipe my hands on my jeans, and take one last look down the line of hives. The hum continues, as if to say, “We’re working it out too.”
Only then do I head for town.
Downtown Colter Creek is bustling as usual. Trucks rolling through, bells chiming as shop doors open, someone laughing too loud outside the bakery. Normal things. Comforting things.
And beneath it all, that same quiet rhythm, inside me and out, still working. Still processing.
The bell over the Old Mill Café door gives its familiar, softer jingle when I step inside. The sound of the creek drifts in through an open window.
The smell hits instantly. Dark roast, warm bread, sugar melting into comfort. It wraps around me the way the bees’ hum did earlier. Another anchor.
“Morning, Abilene,” Mae calls from behind the counter, already reaching for my mug.
“Morning,” I say, grateful for routines that don’t ask questions.
