winter in the garden

BEE THIRSTY, MY FRIENDS

Suddenly, the bees are craving water! They’re seeking it anywhere they can find it. We’ve even found bees drinking in unlikely places — like the roof of the car after a wild, late afternoon thunderstorm. (It was “hive-rattler!)

And now in the mornings, we’re seeing bees congregating on a tray I accidentally left out all winter ( my bad!) with planting pots and the garden hose. I was going to clean up this whole mess, but look how much the bees love it, I have to leave it!

And here’s the irony: Last year, as some of you may remember, Davey built the bees a dedicated drinking fountain. (Actually, it’s a chicken water-er with river rocks for the bees to perch on.) But it’s right beside Styrohive and plumbed into the household water supply, so it’s fresh. The bees ignore it and and fly 35′/ 11m down to the dirty, swampy water on the tray in front of the house. 

I don’t get it. Are there minerals or something else bees need in the dirty water? What do you think? Are your bees as thirsty as ours? 

Monday 8:27am
I woke up with you on my mind.
You called me babe last night —
my heart is still pounding.

Tuesday 10:53pm
Today I realized we won’t work.
What we are is hurting her.
And I think she matters more to me than you do.

Wednesday 11:52pm
I broke things off with you today.
She barely said a word.
I’ve never regretted anything more than this.

Thursday 4:03pm
I shouldn’t have sent that message.
You shouldn’t have been so okay with receiving it.

Friday 9:57pm
I almost messaged you today.
I didn’t.

Saturday 8:49pm
I’m walking around town in search of alcohol.
They say that liquor numbs the pain of having a broken heart.
I want to put that to the test.

Sunday 2:32am
I heard you texted a girl you’ve never spoken to before.
I wonder if it’s because you’re trying to replace me.
I can’t help but wish you weren’t.
I thought I was irreplaceable.

—  a week with you on my mind, c.j.n.
Looking back, I can’t remember the truth. I blew everything out of proportion so I could feel the hurt and betrayal and write about it in vivid detail. It was my own method of torture. My own undoing; and I enjoyed every second of it.
—  c.j.n.