Baked Bees Don´t Sting

(An article I wrote for the the October issue of AMOR Projects eNewsletter´- email me if you´d like the rest of it)

The charred patch of ashes with scattered stumps creeps out-ward, slowly pushing back the tangle of downed trees, spine-encrusted vines and mini-bamboos. Weeks of memories melt together in the combined heat of the sun and brushfires, leaving onlythe deepest-engraved behind. A machete arcs down toward a half-buried two-inch vine; two men--straining, quivering, grunting--tilt a two-foot-wide, four-hundred-pound hardwood log vertical, thenwatch in exhausted satisfaction as it crashes into a roaring brushfire. These scenes duplicated themselves hundreds of times over the last two months. Other memories stand alone, lone boulders braving the waves of routine, unmistakably different. Like reaching my bare hand into a newly opened beehive, then squeezing the comb bees and all. The drops
of orange juice concentrate-flavored honey dribble into my mouth, courtesy of a race of bees that only sting hair. The mundane juxtaposes with the
extraordinary, and I go on clearing land for mango,
tangelo, and mandarin trees, that are soon to arrive.