no drones, no foragers, no light at the entrance to speak of. the colony has pulled itself into a single ball at the centre of the box and is keeping a temperature against the snow. they shiver in relay: those at the inside warm, those at the outside cold, and the positions rotate slowly through the long weeks.
they eat the year's stored honey at a rate the keeper can calculate but does not like to. the queen has stopped laying; the swarm of summer is a memory carried in the walls.
put an ear to the box on a still january night and you will hear a low even hum, like a kettle that has not quite begun to sing. the bee-keeper does this once a month and walks back across the garden reassured. the snow on the lid is not melted; this is, surprisingly, a good sign.
— knocked once. they answered once. — k.r.