Upon the green sits a white bee hive, a sweet house for the honeybee.
The hive was the sweetest of floral-ambrosia homes for the honeybee.
The bee hive is alive with a happy buzzing sound.
The bee hive, after its wintry siesta, awakes into the warming air.
Upon the grass stands the white house of the bees, the wooden panels still wet with raindrops. There is a gentle buzz in the air, a sense of business that comes with such creatures and somehow it belongs here as much as the wildflowers that bloom. Anya takes her rest upon a rock and lets her eyes do the dreaming, her brain weaving reality and an array of fantasies. The hive is something of beauty to her, a sweet community making something so amazing in a way she never could.