The next day, things are back to normal. It's time to go to work with bees. You've been to the battlefield and the Antarctic, however, and the tools of the trade seem to have gathered a few extra meanings, private to your own experience of course, and also without practical value. You wouldn't think of sharing these thoughts... but you do pause, picking up the bee smoker. The white haze falls out of the cone. souls fleeing across the ice, heading towards the lens of your camera. your brain felt the impact as they hit the trapping film. Later (but contiguous in your thoughts)...poison gas lifts in streamers through the air, following the vacuum and turbulence left behind by explosion of a portable grenade. At the edge of the battlefield is a hive. In the hive are bees, warriors with multifaceted eyes like cameras that swing out over the world, past the limits of the their wood home-cube at the edge of the battle, up over the hill, village, town, high, towards the sun, which guides and propels the searchers out to the limits of the nation and beyond, searching for food to bring back to the hive, to make into honey. Honey is the business, and at that, Hive-Maker starts to work with his bees.     In the summer of 1916, James Hive-Maker returned to his home and business, a bee-farm north of London, to supervise the season's work, and check on his hives.