Cotton clouds appear suddenly in the sky, held there with double-sided tape. Official mourners stand on the ground underneath, trying to find faces in the smoky shapes that drift apart. After a while, nothing is left, and attention drifts across the otherwise completely blue sky to the intercontinental contrail of a commercial jet, way to high (and off-course too, what's a passenger jet doing over this test-killing ground?     All this time, the bee television was active inside me. I received pictures from the bees.