Bee and honeycomb on the ribs

The lorry broke down again past the sign for Tonopah, or it did before the sand took the last letters off it, so I am writing this on the back of a feed receipt while Mrs Okafor's boy wrestles the axle. You will be pleased to hear the bees came through the night. I went down the line of hives at four with the torch in my teeth and every entrance was humming. The queen in number seven has laid right up to the frame edge, and the workers are dragging pollen off those thin grey stems along the verge, the ones with the little black heads like scattered peppercorns. I counted forty before I lost track.

Tell Tomasz the smoke tin is nearly empty and that I have not been stung on the wrist since Thursday, which I think counts as a victory. The radio has only played the same song about a cowboy since Barstow, so I have started humming the hive count instead, which is less sad.

Here is the thing I meant to say. Tomorrow we cross the flat stretch where the road runs straight as a ruler for forty miles, and the heat rises off the tarmac in red wobbling sheets, and for a while the whole horizon looks like honeycomb. I told the boy that and he laughed, but you always said the bees know where the water is before any map does. Maybe they do. I am following them anyway.

Love, Ros