The dog led me to a truck in the upper pasture by the bee hives. The sign on the truck door said Ampersand Apiaries.
The bee keeper said he and his crew were "gonna scrape honey."
"Those bees'll be mad as hell. You better give 'em a wide berth."
The dog was already headed out.
Higher up, the Spanish Peaks were smokey from forest fires.
The beekeepers stirred up the bees while we took the long way down.
Alongside the road something was in the bush.
A wild chicken. Look real close and you'll just see a second wild chicken on the left, not much more than a splodge of color. We'd seen a half dozen near here in the spring and thought they'd escaped from barnyard a couple of miles away. We thought they wouldn't last a night with the coyotes, foxes, eagles and owls. But they did. The original chicken was a jungle fowl in South Asia. So they can survive. Maybe they've been here for generations. Although it's hard to see how they could survive a winter.
500 feet overhead, a red tailed hawk said those chickens look like lunch