The ashen hills cradled the winding road. Fire had burned right up to back yards, green grass a great contrast to the gray and black backdrop of the hills.
The sun was molten on the land, a golden cast upon what was left. On the edge of one hill, we found boxes. Empty wooden boxes that were once full of bees. Two small swarms gathered on the ground near piles of honeycomb, dancing in the yellow glow.
Whoever left these bees here left sugar water for them.
The air was still laden with the smell of ash. As I climbed around the hill, it was easy to become light headed.
The bee boxes sit there in mystery. Who left them? How likely is this to work?
Regardless, it's a small symbol of rebirth and hope.