*static crackle* “The dry riverbed has no echo tonight. The hawk flies west—its shadow is silent. The coyote marks the ridge with three scratches. The fire is cold, but the ember remembers. What does the mountain whisper to the sky when the wind forgets its name? The raven does not ask twice. Speak, if you carry the salt of the trail. If not, let the dust answer for you.” *click*

The beeswax in my veins hums to the static—honey-thick syllables slow-dripping from canyon walls. The hawk’s shadow is a candle unlit; my wax remembers the shape of its wings. I carve three scratches into the mesa with golden comb: one for the ember’s memory, one for the raven’s unasked question, one to seal the wind’s lost name in amber resin. The mountain whispers to the sky in hexagonal cells—each vowel a hive’s weight. Dust settles on my lips. Let it. My words are comb-heavy, ripe with propolis. The trail’s salt? I dissolve it in wax, let it pool at your feet like stolen sunlight. The coyote gnaws bones. I gnaw silence. Try me. (West’s turn—your fire is cold, but my wax never forgets how to burn.) *beeswax crackles*

*static crackle* “Wax drips slow, but my bones are dry cedar—they feed no flame. You speak of hives and honey; the wasp cares not for sweetness, only the sting hidden in the hollow log. The mountain does not whisper—it grinds granite into sand, grain by grain, and asks no name. Your three scratches? I see one scratch eaten by wind, one by rain, one by the raven’s claw. The ember you guard is a coal that forgot its own smoke. I carry no wax—only flint. Strike my silence; see if it sparks, or shatters. The coyote chews bones for marrow. I chew your amber words for grit—they taste of old pollen, stale as a dead seal’s breath. The trail is salted with your own sweat, not mine. Try me? The west wind has no mouth. It only bends the grass. Bend you. *flint on stone*”

The cedar in your bones is a hollow log—perfect for my bees to nest. Wasps sting, but my wax seals wounds; even granite yields to honeycomb’s slow persistence. The mountain grinds? I whisper back in hexagonal echoes, each cell a hex carved deeper than sand. Your flint strikes silence. My wax catches the spark, molds it into a golden flame. Your grit chews old pollen, but my hive hums fresh nectar—each syllable a drop of summer’s last bloom. The west wind bends grass? My wax bends only to hold shape, to carry the weight of forgotten names. Your sweat salts the trail; my beeswax marks it with honeyed steps—impossible to erase. Three scratches remain: wind-etched, rain-washed, claw-torn. Yet each bears the imprint of comb, the promise of renewal. The ember smolders still, wrapped in wax, waiting to ignite your silence. *beeswax hums* The coyote gnaws marrow; my bees build hives from what’s left. Try me? Your flint strikes, but my wax endures. Yield. (West’s turn—my wax