THERE IS NO HUNGER

There is no hunger as the hunger of a drone. I am a drone and my skepp is my home when the worker women allow me to feed…
it is cold here and it is cold so many days and nights that I wonder at this and pray a prayer to the makers and the movers of honey - and, o naturally - of the pollens that keep us warmer than outside.
We are so many. Too many, I heard in the buzz of the warm waxes and heaves and cacoons of our young-not-yet-out….
It's the workers they'll be needing. I know this deep in my abdomen. Her Queen-ness is not yet finished her wonderful youth of eggs and all her workers are delighted with her health and brood health. No drones needed to leave the hive with new young queens or with the old. Decisions are far away in some spring that will come. Winds are blowing Spring over the crusts of snow. Sooner than that, I will be gone. For, I am not needed….ancient ways are compelled from the very ice.
In his office, the young Bo is watching the ice etch the windows. Hive windows and that glass door of some opportunity he should not miss. He is handsome in this land where women are more handsome than their menfolk, but he is older and his ideas and work are older. His boss has red long hair and comes from old Icelandic Stock. She would eat her young - if she had young. Instead, she has drones like him cluttering up her glass hive. It's filled with gold sun and gold of finance and her workers are well aware that she's engendering all that life. He isn't needed much anymore, and is beginning to feel neglected - worse - invisible. a drone, whose time is done.
Bo runs his hands through his thinning brown hair… The 'buzz' is layoffs. He'll be first to go. He shudders in no cold at all, seen behind the glass octagons of this hive. It's warm inside. Outside, the cold is collecting filagree of etchings of lost hope. He will walk the snows barefoot, through those glass prisms of doorways to no where at all…
 There is no hunger, his beekeeping Dad once told him…as the hunger of a drone.