The spring mountains in Chun'an in western Zhejiang are always dyed green like splashing ink after the Qingming Festival. Le Alora squatted beside a beehive halfway up the mountain, and gently opened the linen covering the mouth of the box with her fingertips. Hundreds of worker bees buzzed around her, but none of them took the initiative to attack. They recognized the breath of her hands, the scent of acacia honey that was stained on her sleeves all year round, and her inspections and care three times a day.
"Aluo, the bees in box No. 3 Have sorted again!" The voice of old beekeeper Uncle Wang came from the bottom of the mountain, with a rough voice unique to mountain people.
Le Alora straightened up, patted her jeans stained with grass blades, and shook the leather accounting book hanging on her waist. She is the only accountant of the "Chun'an Bee Language Cooperative" and the youngest beekeeper in the cooperative. This dual identity makes her particularly special among this group of beekeepers whose average age is over fifty.
"Coming!" She responded, holding up her skirt and running down the mountain. The gravel path under her feet was wet with morning dew and a little slippery, but she walked steadily. In the past few years, I have learned beekeeping from Uncle Wang, and it has been common to travel across mountains and ridges. The tender skin and tender meat that I grew in the city now have a bit of the toughness of the mountains.
Next to beehive No. 3, Uncle Wang was looking anxiously at a dark swarm of bees. They gathered on a nearby camphor tree branch, forming a bee cluster the size of a basketball. The buzz was deafening.
