You wring out your dishrag and shake it, watching the droplets catch the light. It's morning and you have all the windows open to let the summer air move though the house. Dawn was barely two hours ago and you've already finished having breakfast and cleaning the house. The whole day stretches out, lazy like a cat, faintly golden as pollen drifts through the air from your garden.
A bee drifts lazily through the air and alights on your outstretched hand. She walks across your palm before flying off again, like a little hello. You follow her through the kitchen and out the back door. Your garden is a thick, wild tangle, only half cultivated and bursting with color. This time of day it's teeming with bees, and when you walk into the grass you are careful about where you put your feet. You walk barefoot in the garden, with breeches underneath your skirts so you can kneel and weed without worrying about your knees. You think perhaps you'll go up to the wild hive this afternoon; it's a three