A field of red lips. Swaying, swelling, seeping. Harsh sounds fall from the sky and perish in the thick undergrowth. Fragrant, glistening nectar exiting the red mouths, dripping smoothly down on the leaves below. The earth quivers. Soon they'll be gone, the red lips. Whispers of death in the cool morning breeze. This is what excites them so. Red soil, blood and ash. Fearless bees buzzing with life drink greedily and are rewarded with silence. The sound of translucent wings losing momentum; minuscule sawtooth waves morphing into sines. The red field listens with hunger.